


Ireland vs Bulgaria

by lembas7



Series: ECverse [17]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lembas7/pseuds/lembas7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>World Cup. Death Eaters. Shaken, not stirred . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [22 - 23 August, 1994]

 

* * *

**_(Harry)_ **

* * *

“Sirius?”

Blankets shifted as the form underneath stirred; wood _clack_ ed against the nightstand. “Harry?” His godfather sat up, muttering something under his breath. Light flared, illuminating Sirius’ room. “What’s wrong?”

Harry rubbed the stinging mark, feeling heat rush to his face. Fingers groped; cool metal fit roundly into his palm. Turning the knob, he backed out of the room he’d burst so precipitously into only a moment ago. _This is so dumb._ “I, uh – it’s nothing -”

“Hold on, Harry.”

One foot out the door, Harry paused.

Sirius reached for cloth draped over the foot of his bed, setting his wand aside. Overlong black hair was pushed out of his eyes; clad in pajama bottoms and t-shirt, he surveyed his godson as he pulled on a thin robe.

Harry fingered a soft pajama sleeve, rubbing at comfortingly worn stripes. “I’m sorry I woke you – I didn’t -”

Warm fingers on his shoulder. Another tipped his face up, to meet searching eyes. “Harry. What’s bothering you?”

“It’s my scar,” he blurted. “It’s . . . burning.”

Concern bathed him from pale blue, and Sirius gazed intently at him. “When did it start?”

_He believes me?_ And more than that, Sirius was worried. Fine lines crinkled the skin around pale eyes; the smiling mouth was drawn tight. _He believes me._ Sheer bewilderment left him staring, wordless, and strangely afraid.

“Harry?”

Wooden floorboards were butter-smooth against his bare toes. “I had a dream.” Just thinking about the fragments of pain and fear and sorrow made his face scrunch, thumping heart hanging heavy behind his ribs.

Warmth enfolded him, and he froze, unsure. But the arms surrounding him were gentle, undemanding, offering comfort that it took too much effort to resist. The knot inside unwound, and without knowing how he was crying, words tumbling from his lips. “Voldemort – he was – a _thing_. . . and there was an old Muggle – he _killed_ him, Sirius, Voldemort _killed_ him and Wormtail was watching and he wants to kill me too. . .” And on, and on, and Sirius never stopped hugging him, murmuring quiet words to soothe.

One shuddering breath after another heralded the end of the tears; fourteen was far too old for this, he wasn’t a _baby_ after all. _Get a grip,_ he told himself fiercely. But . . . Sirius didn’t seem to mind being used as a handkerchief, using his own sleeve to blot the messy tear-tracks leaving a wet sheen on Harry’s cheeks. Harry was too tired to care.

“Feel better?”

A damp laugh surprised him, bubbling up from a place inside teetering on hysteria’s sword-sharp point. _Itchy eyes, blocked-up nose, headache, but . . ._ “Yeah. I think so. Maybe.”

A calloused hand ruffled black hair, on-end from being pressed into a pillow and tossed in dreams. “Come on. Let’s go to the kitchen. I know just the thing.”

‘Just the thing’ turned out to be milk, saucepan-warmed with a drip of honey. It tasted like a burst of sunshine on his tongue, and slipped silkily into his stomach to radiate heat to nightmare-chilled insides. Idly toying with smooth ceramic, Harry was intrigued to see Sirius make some, Muggle-style, for himself. “It’s good. When did you learn how to do this?”

Wielding a wooden spoon as proficiently as his wand, his godfather eyed the stove carefully. Flames danced under a shining pot. “Your dad taught me, actually.”

Mug forgotten, Harry sat up straight. “Really?”

A mischievous smile flashed at him. “Really. I stayed with him most of the summer before our seventh year, and his mother made it whenever either of us had trouble sleeping. He made it for your mom when she was pregnant with you, and for you when you were a baby. I learned how out of self-preservation.”

“Self-preservation?”

The pan was pulled from the flame, frothy white cascading into another mug. Harry pushed his forward, and received it back filled to the rim.

“Yup. James and Lily wanted to go out every so often after you were born, have a little time to themselves, and I got to look after you. You were generally a good kid,” a wink was tossed his way, “but occasionally I had trouble getting you to sleep.” Heat bloomed in Harry’s face; Sirius chuckled. Chair legs scraped slate as his godfather settled comfortably across the table. “Lily threw a fit the first time she found out I wasn’t using the formula, but eventually she relented. And this worked better.”

For all he had pictures, and stories of their bravery, Harry didn’t know much about the people his parents had been. Curiosity pricked eager ears, and took control of his tongue. “Threw a fit?”

Sirius’ laugh was good to hear; full and filled with quiet joy. “Did she ever!” Pale eyes studied the mug, and Harry took a quick sip. Maybe that would keep his wandering mouth busy.

“Lily was barely twenty-one or so when you were born.” The explanation came slowly from his godfather’s lips. Ceramic bumped gently against oak, milk sloshing just enough to send warm vapors swirling into the kitchen. “You were her first baby, and she’d never had much experience with children. Her sister is three years older, so Lily had never even seen someone change a nappy.”

His butt hit the edge of his seat, elbows planted on the smooth tabletop.

“She was a mother for the first time, and she called your grandmother for everything she could, read every book she could to try to find the best way to care for you.” A wicked smirk sparked in pale eyes. “I had a few good laughs watching her figure out how to change and clean nappies – until James pointed out that as godfather, I shouldn’t have to miss out on the fun.”

His godfather’s grimace had a grin starting that Harry tried to hide, but Sirius’ open chagrin had him choking on his milk, sputtering and laughing by turns.

“Oh, it’s funny now,” Sirius groused, but there was an answering grin twitching the corners of his mouth. “Eventually she figured it all out. Your dad helped, of course. Remus and I got dragged into it too. Even Peter.”

“ _Wormtail?_ ”

Empty ceramic slipped over the wooden tabletop until it was far out of reach. But his godfather’s lean form was relaxed, and Harry’s hate breathed deep for a moment, waiting to hear what came next.

The answer, when it came, was not what he expected. “Don’t hold on to your anger, Harry. It’s not worth it.”

He was on his feet, chair toppling to the floor and images from his dream trampling fresh pain over his thoughts. “You can _forgive_ him?”

“ _No_.”

Startled emerald caught on clenched, scarred fists.

“No,” Sirius repeated, fingers spreading to press down against the motion of his body as he stood. His voice was low and so rough Harry had to strain for the words. “I can’t. I will _never_ understand what made him turn his back on a friendship so close it was a bond of family. I will never understand why he turned to Voldemort instead of to us, why he would give you and your family to him.”

“But – but you said -”

Sirius had circled the table, righting the chair. One hand pressed gently on his shoulder. “Sit, Harry.”

Wood slats dug hard against his back; something solid in the shifting sea of reality.

“I’m worried about you,” Sirius said quietly. “I don’t want to see you grow with this hate inside you. It will turn you bitter, and make you old before your time. It will warp you; and if you let that happen, no matter if Voldemort falls and the Death Eaters are scattered to the corners of the earth – he will have won.”

Harry felt . . . peculiar. No one had ever spoken like this to him before, with a blend of concern and solemnity only emphasized by the experience coloring his godfather’s tone. It hurt; and he realized his breath was coming in ragged gasps. “How do you do it?” _How do you not hate him with everything you have?_

“I think about everything that’s good in my life. Sometimes, I tell myself how much worse it could be.” Steel replaced pale eyes. “It’s hard. Some days are better than others.”

_I’ll bet._ He wasn’t going to think about Azkaban, about how the godfather he’d learned to love so much it hurt had been locked there for _years_ with nightmares as strong as the one still wisping through his brain. The words came with difficulty. “I’ll try.”          

A sigh eased the tension in Sirius’ shoulders. “Thank you, Harry. That’s all I ask.” But by the look in his eyes, Harry had the feeling that what Sirius had said wasn’t nearly as easy as it sounded. He swigged cooling milk, still soothed by the sweetness. Emerald fixed on thick gold coating the bottom of the mug. “Sirius . . . what were my parents like?”

Pale eyes assessed him. “Come on, let’s get comfortable.”

A few minutes later soft cushions braced him on either side, a thick afghan draped over toes chilled from the kitchen’s slate flooring. The couch dipped; Harry burrowed against Sirius’ side. It had taken him awhile to realize that he was allowed to do that, to reach out and hug his godfather. Longer to find the courage.

An arm held him close, the hand ruffling hair already awry from sleep.

“You’re probably going to hear a lot of different things about your parents, from a lot of different people.” Sirius’ voice was quiet, just carrying over the crackle of a small fire blooming in the hearth. “A lot of it will be hero-worship. Some of it will be negative, especially if you manage to set Snape off.”

_Been there, heard that._ Harry winced, snuggling deeper into the cream afghan.

The older man shifted, and pale eyes snared emerald. “They knew what they were doing when they had you, Harry. No matter what you might hear about how they were barely adults, with little experience and less knowledge about toying with the Dark Lord and courting death -”

Something hurt, deep inside, and found its way through to show up on his face.

“Some people think that,” relentless blue ice continued. “When you get older, they’ll be more likely to tell you, too. But your parents knew _exactly_ what they were doing, and what it meant, when they decided to have you. And they did it anyway, because they loved you and they loved each other, Harry.”

“It got them killed.” The voice didn’t sound like his, small and shaky. His skin was cold under the blanket, distressed fingers pulling at pale red fringe. “I got them -”

“No.” The chest under his cheek lifted; Sirius let the sigh out slowly. “You need to understand, Harry, that Voldemort was targeting your parents anyway. They had defied him three times – which was two times more than almost anyone else had survived, except Frank and Alice Longbottom.”

Slowly, the warmth creeping from the hearth was touching him, sinking to bones chilled by a fear-frozen soul. Harry stared at the flames painting the room in colors of reassuring heat. Curiosity stirred. “Neville?”

“Yes; Frank and Alice are his parents.”

“But nothing happened to them!” Harry burst out, surprised. “They’re still alive -” A memory of the first Defense Against the Dark Arts class third year caught him. “Neville lives with his grandmother.” Panic tightened his throat; confusion clawed at his mind. “Sirius?” he pleaded.

“Shh, Harry. Shhh. . .”

He had to know. He didn’t know why, but he _had_ to know. “What happened to Neville’s parents? They’re still alive, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” his godfather said, sadness in the gentle petting of his hand over Harry’s hair. “Yes, they are. They’re in the permanent care ward of St. Mungo’s Hospital. They were tortured by Death Eaters, not long before your parents were killed. It was . . . horrible.”

And Sirius would tell him no more, no matter how much he pressed. “Your parents were human, Harry. And they were good people. They did make mistakes – but not when they had you.”

A story followed, of their years in school and how his parents competed for grades incessantly, fighting and haranguing each other until seventh year, when they fell – deeply, inexplicably – in love.

Sleep took him, with Sirius’ voice speaking quietly of the Marauders in the halls of Hogwarts, and dreams of pranks and years long gone followed him down.       

* * *

****_(Remus)_ ** **

* * *

Sirius’ neck was bent at a painful angle. Remus winced. _What are they doing down here?_ The wolf had heard night noises in the shape of a boy and _pack-scent_ , but it hadn’t been alarming or loud enough to rouse Remus from sleep.

“Sirius,” he whispered, shaking one shoulder. Muscle bunched under his grip; a spine arched against deep red upholstery.

Pale eyes snapped open, clear and assessing.

Remus kept his gaze mild. “You looked a little uncomfortable,” he nodded toward the boy’s boneless sprawl across half of the couch and most of his godfather.

“Not so much.” One hand sifted gently through messy black strands resting on his chest. Sirius carefully flexed abused limbs, winced, and threw him a grin. Harry shifted slightly in his sleep. The two men froze. Nuzzling more deeply against the heartbeat beneath his cheek, Harry settled. It was a moment more before the Marauders breathed easy.

_Like putting him down for a nap when he was a baby._ Remus was amused. “Need help?”

“Thanks, Moony.”

Together, they managed to extricate Sirius from Harry, and bundle the boy more comfortably on the couch. Retreating to the kitchen, Remus tossed his fellow Marauder a questioning glance.

“Nightmares,” the other grimaced. One hand lifted to rub at sore neck muscles. A soft curse was all too clear to the wolf, and Remus grinned.

“His or yours?”

The glare was only halfhearted, and so bounced right off. _I thought so._

“Harry’s, actually.” Sirius yawned. And from the thoughtfulness that hadn’t changed over thirteen years, shown in faraway eyes and one finger scratching absently behind an ear, Remus was forced to revise his earlier thought. “I’m worried.”

_Over a nightmare?_ Much as they both detested the truth of it, Harry had more than ample reason to be woken by fear in the night. “Why?”

Briefly, Sirius explained – and Remus was left with an uneasy sensation twisting in his gut. _Voldemort – curse scar – killing a Muggle? – Wormtail. . . ._ Disjointed thoughts whirled as he absently sipped at a cup of tea. Sweetness burst onto his tongue, jolting him from unpleasant reverie.

“This is good,” he said with some surprise. “When did you learn to cook?”

A snort diverted him to the stove, where a flick of Sirius’ wand lowered the flames leaping from the burner. “Last time I heard, reheating didn’t count as cooking.”

“Oh. Someone else is up?”

“Looks that way. Left a note.” Parchment waved in his direction; Remus snagged it. _‘Gone for a walk. Tea fresh. P.’_

The muted clash of pots in the sink brought his head up. Sirius was muttering to himself as he tried to find room for the used dishes resting idly on granite countertops.

Soothing rowan rested under his fingertips, reminding him of Sirius’ trip to Ollivanders’ a bare few weeks ago. _Older, more mature, the both of us. Protectors – in need of protection._ More true than he like to think about. _And scarred._ He chose to watch Sirius hunt for a sponge rather than survey the bleak inner landscape of his thoughts. A not-so-muffled curse had teeth clamping the soft flesh of his cheek. _Don’t laugh._ “ _Scourgify.”_

Porcelain slipped from a surprised, soapy grasp. Remus lunged. _“Immobulus!_ ”

Reaching for the plate frozen halfway to the floor, Sirius tossed a grin his way. Strain lined the suddenly pale face; Remus was out of his chair and across the kitchen as his friend turned away, plucking the dripping plate from its position midair. “Thanks, Remus. Wouldn’t want Lucy to get mad at me for breaking one of her plates -”

A touch to one shoulder halted the flow of words. “I’m sorry.” Sirius didn’t do well with anyone casting while his back was turned. _I don’t even want to_ think _about where those instincts are coming from._

Determined cheer met his probing glance. “So, none of the Pevensies are coming to the World Cup?”

Remus drew back with difficulty. _Let him try it his way. Sirius is the most stubborn person on the planet. If he thinks he can do it, he usually can._ Even if it almost killed him in the process. _Not going to happen._ He wouldn’t let it. Shaking his mind back to the here-and-now, he saw Sirius reaching concernedly out to _him_ , and shook his head. “No, they’re not. Susan put her foot down, and she’s right. They would stick out too much, never mind the strange sorts the Cup draws.”

“Too right,” Sirius muttered, fondness in the shake of shaggy hair. The Marauder cracked an egg into the pan, followed swiftly by a second. In moments, spitting sounds of cooking accompanied the fresh smell of food.

Deep in his stomach, the wolf growled.

Sirius smirked.

“You’re coming with me to drop Harry off later, then?” Maybe if he could divert attention fast enough, he could avoid the –

“Hungry, Moony?”

– teasing. “No,” he said baldly. The wolf grumbled, avid for the smell of food. Remus went for the plates, loftily ignoring the suppressed amusement rolling off his friend. “The Weasleys want Harry for supper, around sixish, Molly said. We’re welcome too, of course, and the Pevensies.”

Movement at the side of the room resolved into a groggy, yet dressed, Edmund. Susan was on his heels. “Welcome?”

“This evening, at the Weasleys’.”

“That’s right.” Susan picked the note from the gray, granite countertop. “Peter’s out?”

Her brother nodded through a jaw-cracking yawn. Remus’ ears heard the shifting of wood as Edmund settled at the table. Something thumped overhead. “Lucy’s up.”

“How are you going to get to the Weasleys’?”

“Portkey.” Remus polished off a slice of toast, taking in confused expressions up and down the table. It was so easy to forget, sometimes, that the Pevensies didn’t know all the ins and outs of the Wizarding World. _Until they jump on you with questions,_ he recalled, remembering the veritable interrogation that had taken place after their first trip to Diagon Alley. “It’s . . . well, it’s a transportation device. An object is enchanted to take all the people who touch it to a certain place at a certain time. Specialized magic, but not too difficult. Families generally tend to use them when they have a lot of people going someplace not connected by Floo.” _Or when mothers are unwilling to subject their infants and toddlers to a rough Floo ride._ Lily had been adamant about Portkeying –

“Hmm.” Edmund slathered raspberry jam on a slice of bread that looked two tiny steps away from being charcoal. “Maybe we should just get permanently connected to the Floo Network.”

A forkful of omelette was followed by a sip of orange juice across the table. “Do you really think so, Edmund?” Lucy frowned. “Would we really have that many people coming and going, here?”

_That’s right._ Remus put his own glass down. _A Floo wouldn’t be any use to – wait a minute._ Magic tended to react oddly around these Muggles. Direct attacks would never reach them, but Edmund had gotten stuck on the changing stairs at Hogwarts several months ago, and for all his swearing the spells hadn’t flickered. Remus honestly had no idea whether they would be able to use the Floo or not. 

The dark-haired man shrugged. “The exchange rates for Muggle money are quite good, actually. It wouldn’t be that much of an expense, and I think it could come in handy.”   

“What could?”

Remus blinked; the human would have jumped, attention on the conversation, but the wolf was always alert. Sirius didn’t look surprised either.

“Morning, Peter!” Lucy bounced up from the table, Susan adding her own greetings to her sister’s.

“We were just talking about connecting to the Floo Network,” the younger Pevensie brother filled in.

The blond man dropped into the last empty chair at the head of the oaken table. “Well, if we can keep ourselves from thinking about the spell, it might be worthwhile.”

“Thinking about the spell?” Sirius toyed absently with a few scraps of scrambled eggs. Remus blinked at the strange turn of phrase. _Good question._

A few grimaces came from the Pevensies who had been at Hogwarts in the past year. Susan carted a few dishes to the sink and returned to listen, intrigue overflowing from blue eyes.

Peter was left to explain between bites of toast. “We found a lot of the time last year that we could interact with magical things, and creatures, without affecting the magic at all. Unless we concentrate on it. That seems to be the point where the magic starts unraveling.” He accepted a cup of juice from Lucy with a grin.

“Usually in new and exciting ways,” Edmund grumbled, nose-deep in his teacup.

“ _Aegis Sanguinis_ protects against attack,” Peter continued, “but passively it acts more as a shield than anything. We’re still working on being able to control it, if such a thing is even possible.” A twist of lips almost hidden by the short blond beard spoke to their success in that.

_Aegis Sanguinis . . ._ “Blood protection?” Remus asked carefully. His plate held nothing more of interest. The wolf was satisfied, and more curious now than anything.

“The love of Aslan.” Surprisingly, it was Susan who murmured the words. _Aslan . . ._ The word still rang pure in his heart. _Strange._

“Regardless,” Edmund broke the mood. “Is it worth it to get connected to the Network?”

The eldest rubbed calloused fingers against blond strands. “It’s up to you, mostly. I’m going to have to be in London most of this year, working.” Remus caught worried expressions on the other Pevensies’ faces. He knew something was going on with them and the Muggle government, but neither he nor Sirius knew precisely what. “And I have to find someplace to stay. The lease on my apartment ran out in June.”

“Actually, I have someplace you might stay in London.” Sirius mustered up a smile. “If you don’t undo the enchantments that ward against Apparition and attack, and make the place Unplottable.”

Edmund snorted.

Peter’s grin was somewhat sheepish.

“You can’t mean -” Remus pushed his dish away, frowning at the other Marauder. Pale eyes wouldn’t meet his. “Not Grimmauld Place, Sirius.”

A grimace gave him his answer.

The Pevensies’ curiosity was so thick Remus could almost reach out and touch it. _But I thought –_ “What about the bindings? The inheritance magics? Your parents removed them.” Taking away Sirius’ ability to control the protections and intricate magics of the Black family home. _And almost killing you in the process._ Remus was only barely able to contain the wolf’s snarl at the memory. James had told the other Marauders, in quick whispers, after Sirius had revealed that he had been disowned. _And then he had to almost hex us to stop us from doing our best to curse Sirius’ parents._

That had been when they were younger, and Wormtail had been with them as a brother, fiery and angry and as ready as James and Remus to go tell Orion and Walburga Black _exactly_ what they thought of those two sorry excuses for –

“Yes,” Sirius’ voice was tight. _Damn Azkaban._ Remus forced tense muscles to unwind before his grip snapped the table. “My parents transferred the enchantments to Regulus. They went dormant when he died. But after my parents died as well, the magics woke up again and reverted to me.” Flat, emotionless words without even a trace of the sarcasm the werewolf was expecting.

_He felt it,_ Remus realized, gazing at white features and clenched fists. _He was alone in Azkaban, and when they died the magics clamped down, and he knew –_ “Dammit.”

“It needs some cleaning, of course,” Sirius said lightly, ignoring the Pevensie’s startled looks at Remus’ uncharacteristic slip. But the plate of food, half-full, went untouched. “It hasn’t been lived in for at least ten years, and it was . . . it was a Dark place then.”

Peter raised doubtful brows. “I can find something, if you’d rather –”

Sirius’ smile was forced. “I’m going to be staying there while I go through re-training at the Ministry. Honestly, I’d be grateful for the company.” Sirius wanted to be an Auror again in more than just instinct that had never died.

“Well.” Susan moved to the sink, the sound of running water covering the _clink_ of dishes against glass and metal. “I guess we can hash out the details later. Shouldn’t Harry get up so that you can leave soon?”

“I’ll get him.” Excuse established, Sirius bolted.

Fingers wound into brown strands speckled with gray; Remus closed his eyes. _As if it wasn’t enough what with James and Lily, and Azkaban, and then what Harry’s gone through at Hogwarts . . ._  Sirius had been at his most dangerous after hearing his godson recount Voldemort’s attempt on the Philosopher’s Stone his first year, and the ordeal with the Chamber of Secrets in his second. Remus had held him back, much as he too wanted a confrontation with Dumbledore.

He gripped his hair almost painfully. _Dumbledore._ Neither of them were members of the Order of the Phoenix anymore, and not for lack of offering. Remus only had suspicions as to why, but the wolf knew this hunt, this patient wait.

Sirius’ recent conversation with the Headmaster had all but confirmed it. Remus had never stopped trusting the other Marauder’s skills at reading people. Pranks couldn’t be pulled without it. _And what with that letter Peter recently received . . . something more is going on._ Something that made the eldest Pevensie’s face tight and distant; something he hadn’t yet shared with his family. And it was important – the wolf could read the scents, and his nose never lied.

When Remus blinked his way back to the Mansion’s sunlit kitchen, he found Peter staring into space two seats away.

“Where did everyone else go?”

“Hmm?” Blond hair turned his way. “Oh. Lucy and Susan have plans for today in Coombe Halt, I think. Edmund is off. . . somewhere. Doing . . . something.”

Alarm at the implications surged through Remus; sitting straight in his chair, he eyed the older Pevensie. _Some of Edmund’s jokes were nearly Marauder quality. What do you mean, you don’t know where he is?_ “Peter -”

Messy black hair bolted for the table and the food still sitting out. “Morning, Remus. Morning, Peter.” And then cutlery was flying, loading a plate with eggs, sausage, pancakes, and oatmeal. No more words made their way from the teenager seated across the table, busy chewing and reaching for a glass of juice at the same time.

The other Marauder lounged in the doorway with a soft grin. The expression made Remus relax, a little. _We still have time._ Voldemort had risen again, yes – but they had time enough to plan. _Time enough for life._   

* * *

****_(Ron_ )** **

* * *

  


“Hey, Harry! You’re early, we didn’t expect you for hours yet!” Ron took the last few stairs on a flying leap. The sound of his landing rocked through the Burrow.

_“Will you stop that!”_ Irritation echoed down the winding staircase.  

“Sorry Perce,” he called cheerfully back. “He’s working,” Ron explained to curious green eyes. “He’s got a position at the Ministry, assistant to Bartemious Crouch, doing something – I don’t really know what – and he’s _always_ working. More boring than ever. Oh, hi, Professor Lupin. Mr. Black.” _Oops._ He’d kindof missed them for a minute. He hadn’t seen Harry in weeks.

“It’s alright that we’re here?” Professor Lupin’s brow knotted, and Sirius Black smiled at Mum’s bustling approach.

“Don’t jump down the stairs, Ronald.”

The warning made him gulp.

“Remus, Sirius, it’s lovely to see you, and Harry, dear! Have you eaten? Of course you have. We’ll be having dinner in only a few hours. Ron, you can take Harry outside. Bill, Charlie and the twins are out playing Quidditch.”

“Excellent!”

They’d barely cleared the door before something _whizzed_ overhead. Ron was dragging Harry to the ground with the ease of long practice, but bristles combed through his hair anyway.

“ _Aiiiieeeee!_ ”

_Crunch._

Spitting grass, Harry blinked owlishly upward. “Ron. What was that?”

Red brows winced. “George. Always at it, really. But the early Cleansweeps can’t take such close shaves.” A twin staggered up from a hedge’s now-crumpled leaves. Ron smirked. “They lose control, send you crashing.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. But it means we can beat ‘em now that he’s knocked a few screws loose.”

“Ron,” Harry trotted next to him towards the grounded teams. “Your brothers are Beaters. They’ve _always_ got a few screws loose.”

And Harry practiced with them, which was almost like living with them, Ron supposed. _Not the same, of course. But I guess he’d know._

“How are you doing, Harry?” Charlie jerked his broom to a stop a few feet away; good thing too. _He’s got the one that needs a few extra feet to finish stopping._ Which meant that the only two brooms left were the extra slow one and the one that liked to try to buck its riders off every so often. Charlie was of the opinion it had run afoul of one bludger too many, and gotten skittish. Ron thought that was Charlie’s fault. _It_ was _his old broom._

Ron was taller than Charlie now, though only by a little bit – and Charlie worked with dragons and could beat him up any day of the week. _Probably with one hand tied behind his back, nevermind needing a wand._ But Charlie was generally about as laid-back as Bill.

The game grounded, and after a minute or two of debating between brooms, they lifted off again. Bill, Harry and George teamed up against Charlie, Ron and Fred. _Only fair,_ Ron reckoned, ducking a bludger. Charlie could’ve played for England, after all, and Harry was really good too even though he was playing as Chaser now instead of Seeker. “Watch it, Fred!”

The reply was probably insulting, and mostly snatched away by the wind, but it ended in “ – Ronniekins!” _I’ll kill him. We don’t need a Beater, not with padded bludgers._

Red Quaffle arced, and Ron dove for it. Toes dragged in grass as his broom almost refused to pull out of the dive. _Close. Too close!_ And he’d missed the damn Quaffle.

“Careful, there, Ron,” teased Bill, long hair loose from its ponytail. He’d snatched the Quaffle and darted off toward their unguarded goal posts. The twins had gotten the best brooms because Bill had insisted. _And practice set or not, none of us want Mum scolding over having to patch us up before dinner._

Ron shouted something back he knew Mum would have his head for, leaving the ground spiraling behind as he kicked off. The wind combed fingers through his hair. Almost at the posts, almost . . .

_Thud._

“Whooo!”

And he was racing back toward the opposite end of the field, ducking a bludger aimed by George as he went. The Quaffle had hit him more than he had intercepted it, but he’d kept Bill from scoring!

Cheers on the ground distracted him a minute – Ginny, Mum, Dad, and Professor Lupin and Mr. Black had all come outside to watch. And it looked like Hermione had shown up too –

_Ouch._

Padded or not, the bludger still knocked him spinning. _Falling – bloody hell – oh!_ He found himself suddenly upright, and was shocked to feel wood still under his fingers. How he’d kept his seat, Ron had no idea – and as the Golden Snitch skittered past his face, no time to think.

In this game with no Seekers, anyone could catch the Snitch.

“Thirty-twenty!”

_Down by ten, but if I can just –_ Ron stretched out for the golden blur bobbing just ahead. Shouts broke out from behind as he ‘deserted’ – sudden noise showed him both Harry and Bill on his tail. Charlie was coming up from the side, trying to pull Harry out of the running –

“Yow!” _Damn,_ but Bill’s elbows were _hard!_ Ron slammed back into his brother, not caring. But Harry was ahead of them both, reaching for the snitch –

A blur of brown threw his friend clear as Charlie rushed up from the other side. _Broom bucked,_ Ron realized. _Harry!_

But Harry’s hand had knocked the Snitch off-course, and suddenly the four of them had collided mid-air and Ron felt the ground reach up and knock the breath out of him, hard.

He blinked. There was a foot a bare two centimeters from his face, and someone nearby was swearing. Ron grunted, feeling the ground shift unnaturally underneath him. _What – earthquake?_

“Ron, you great heavy git, get _off_ me!”

Moving. He could do that. “Oh. Fred.” _Wasn’t planning to suffocate him, but it might have worked – nah. Too many witnesses._ “Oof!”

“Ron! Harry! Are you alright?” Hermione, bushy hair frizzed with heat and panic, dragging him away from the pile of his brothers.

_At least there’s only one of her._ “Yeah.” Ron pushed sweaty orange hair off his forehead. “Where’s the snitch?”

“Where’s the - ” Brown eyes glowered. He cringed.

“Of all the hairbrained stunts to pull -” Mum was over by the twins, both of whom had managed to get caught in the pile that had Bill and Charlie still pulling themselves free. Mr. Black and Remus were helping Harry up – and –

“Well I’ll be,” Dad chuckled.

_When did he get home?_

“He got here just in time to see you all jump on each other like a pack of wolves,” Hermione said tartly. Unnerved, Ron stared at her. _Did I say that -_

“Would you look at that!”

Ron looked.

Harry and Charlie both had a few fingers wrapped around the Snitch, holding it between them. The tiny feathered wings were crushed and a bit bedraggled on both sides, fluttering pathetically. Ron picked his jaw off the ground. “So who wins?” he managed when he could speak at all.

“Draw,” Dad said firmly. “And a good thing too. There’s just enough time for you to clean up before supper.”

“Draw!?”

“No way!”

“Awww, Dad -”

“We were up by ten!”

“You father said it’s a tie, and that’s that!” Mum was glaring at everyone now, brushing Harry off firmly. Ron’s friend gave him a panicked, helpless glance. He shrugged. _She likes you, Harry. She’s not yelling at you._ Mum wouldn’t – not a guest. It wasn’t Harry’s fault he and Charlie had both caught the Snitch. Ron bit back a snicker. _It’s Charlie’s._

“But Mum!”

“Yes, George?” Mum snapped. The twins froze.  

Hermione pulled them away. “I think we should go get cleaned up for dinner. Come on,” she said pointedly.

He could still hear Mum muttering angrily. “ – playing so roughly. No sense, none whatsoever - and add that to the mess of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes besides! Not enough sense to fill a teaspoon between the two of them!” Ron dragged his broomstick from the pile. _Good going, George. Way to attract her attention, and get her mad all over again._

“What are Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes?” Harry asked. Ron left the shed open and they circled away from the dispersing crowd on the back lawn to head into the house.

He couldn’t hold in a laugh, and Ginny giggled too. She’d followed them to the small shed with the twins’ broomsticks.  “Mum found this stack of order forms when she was cleaning Fred and George’s room.” He left the window up behind them but shut the bottom half of the door. “Great long price lists for stuff they’ve invented. Joke stuff, you know. Fake wands and trick sweets, loads of stuff. It was brilliant, I never knew they’d been inventing all that . . .”

Hermione shook her head, tying bushy hair back as she climbed.

Ginny followed them up the stairs. “We’ve been hearing explosions out of their room for ages, but we never thought they were actually _making_ things. We thought they just liked the noise.”

Ron had, too. He rounded the landing with a sigh. “Only most of the stuff – well, all of it, really – was a bit dangerous.” His shirt was sticking to him; Ron made a face, plucking at the sweaty cloth. _Ugh._ “And, you know, they were planning to sell it at Hogwarts to make some money, and Mum went mad at them. Told them they weren’t allowed to make any more of it, and burned all the order forms . . . She’s furious at them anyway.” _Furious_ was an understatement. “They didn’t get as many O.W.L.s as she expected.”

He’d never been so glad he wasn’t someone else. But their O.W.L.s were coming up in only a year and a half, and he was dreading them. Merlin, if he didn’t get enough Mum would be after him like the twins. Ron shuddered. _I might actually have to start studying._

“And then there was this big row,” Ginny was saying. “Because Mum wants them to go into the Ministry of Magic, like Dad, and they told her all they want to do is open a joke shop.”

_And that went over like a crate full of bludgers._ Ron’s ears were _still_ ringing from the shouting. “Just don’t take any candy from them. I know they haven’t quit working on some of their stuff, and they’ve got this Ton-Tongue Toffee they’ve been trying to test out on us without Mum finding out -”

Percy’s door snapped open, almost smashing him in the face. His brother’s head poked out, and Ron stifled a sigh at the tetchy, aggravated look on his face. _Here we go again . . ._

“Hi, Percy,” Harry offered.

Hermione gave his older brother a polite smile.

“Oh hello Harry.” Percy sniffed. “I was wondering who was making all the noise. I’m trying to work in here, you know – I’ve got a report to finish for the office – and it’s rather difficult to concentrate when people keep thundering up and down the stairs.” This last was said with a direct glare at Ron.

If he hadn’t heard this from Percy every day, _twice_ a day, for the past _two months_ , Ron might have been able to keep a lid on his irritation. _Or not. Annoying git. Cauldron thickness, ha!_ “We’re not _thundering._ We’re walking. Sorry if we’ve interrupted the top-secret workings of the Ministry of Magic.”

“What are you working on?” asked Harry.

Hermione actually looked interested. Ginny winced, and Ron couldn’t help but roll his eyes. _Here we go again . . ._

“A report for the Department of International Magical Cooperation.” Ron blinked. _How can he sound so smug? No one’ll ever see that silly report, anyway._ Percy didn’t seem to notice him, fixed on Hermione’s interest. But Hermione thought everything was interesting, even _Herbology_. “We’re trying to standardize cauldron thickness. Some of these foreign imports are just a shade too thin – leakages have been increasing at a rate of almost three percent a year -”

Leakage data at breakfast, sneered at him when he used the loo, Mum _asking_ Percy about it all the time . . . _I can’t take it anymore!_ “That’ll change the world, that report will,” Ron cut in. “Front page of the _Daily Prophet_ , I expect, cauldron leaks.”

He was rewarded with an unattractive-looking blush. Percy’s mouth snapped shut. But only for a minute.

“You might sneer, Ron -” and from the tone of voice he just _knew_ there was going to be even _more_ information about cauldron leaks in his future – maybe Percy would corner him when he was taking a shower and read the report out loud – “But unless some sort of international law is imposed we might find the market flooded with flimsy, shallow-bottomed products that seriously endanger -”

_Nah._ Trapping him in the shower was more Fred and George’s style. Percy would just talk him to death, right here on the stairs. “Yeah, yeah, all right.” But at least he didn’t have to stick around for it. Ron made for the next flight, wondering if Percy was smart enough to get out of the way.

Even clomping purposefully up to his room at the top didn’t get all his irritation out. He could hear the noises even before he opened the door.

_Squeak!_

_Oh, no . . ._  

* * *

****_(Hermione)_ ** **

* * *

“That was rude, Ron.” They’d been climbing for so long, they must be close to the top of the Burrow.

Ron snorted. “He’s been going on like that _all summer._ It’s a nightmare, honestly!”

_Squeak!_

Harry was frowning; Hermione could hear the noise even trailing both her friends and Ginny up the stairs. “What’s that noise?”

It was a tiny owl, zooming through Ron’s room. _Oh, that must be Pigwidgeon._

Hermione rolled her eyes as Ron groaned. “Shut up, Pig.”

The Quidditch players in bright orange robes were alternately ducking or trying to grab or beat the feathery fluffball from their poster frames each time the little owl zoomed by.

She wiggled between two footboards, and caught Ron scowling at evidence of the cramped Burrow. He turned to Harry and grunted, “Fred and George are in here with us, because Bill and Charlie are in their room. Percy gets to keep his room all to himself because he’s got to _work_.”

Hermione’d never been in Ron’s room. _It’s . . . really orange._ And like the rest of the Burrow, it was larger on the inside than it looked on the outside.

Bedsprings creaked as Harry settled onto one of the beds. “Er – why are you calling that owl Pig?”

Ron pulled out a clean shirt and held it up, still frowning.

“Because he’s being stupid,” Ginny interjected. Hermione really liked the youngest Weasley. For all she had only brothers, Ginny wasn’t at all what she’d expected. “Its proper name is Pigwidgeon.”

“Yeah, and that’s not a stupid name at all,” Ron said sarcastically. “Ginny named him.” He shook his head. “She reckons it’s sweet. And I tried to change it, but it was too late, he won’t answer to anything else. So now he’s Pig. I’ve got to keep him up here because he annoys Errol and Hermes. He annoys me too, come to that.”

But Ron didn’t really mind it, she could tell. _He complained all the time about Scabbers too, and then wouldn’t speak to me after we thought Crookshanks ate him._ The truth was a little bit scarier. _Pettigrew was a murderer, and he was in the Weasleys’ house for twelve years . . ._

Harry interrupted her thoughts. “When did you get him?”

Ron’s pause roused her curiosity. “Mr. Black didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Harry had been lazing across his bed, but he sat up straight now.

“Pig’s a gift from him,” Ron explained. He’d yanked another shirt from the dresser, stuffing the other back in. “He sent him with a note saying that I should keep him, ‘cause he felt it was his fault I didn’t have a rat anymore.”

They were all silent a minute about that, thinking about third year. _And we really made a mess of Hagrid’s hut. I’m glad he didn’t mind after he found out why._

“Oh.” Harry turned to her. “How’s Crookshanks?”

Hermione grinned. “Mum and Dad love him. He’s had such fun at home, even though there’s nothing magical to keep his attention. I think he’s learning about Muggles. But he loves chasing the birds.” _And catching them too, if the feathers are anything to go by._

“Sounds like fun,” Harry grinned back.

Ginny giggled. “It’s got to be better than being stuck inside all day.”

“Speaking of,” Harry said amiably. “Percy’s enjoying work, then?”

“Enjoying it?” Ron asked darkly, slipping back into the room. He was wearing a clean shirt, and red strands were dark with water. “I don’t reckon he’d come home if Dad didn’t make him. He’s obsessed. It’s unbelievable. Just whatever you do, _don’t_ get him started on his boss. _According to Mr. Crouch . . . as I was saying to Mr. Crouch . . . Mr. Crouch is of the opinion . . . Mr. Crouch was telling me . . ._ They’ll be announcing the engagement any day now. Percy practically licks his shoes. It’s disgusting to hear him go on.”

“Have you had a good summer, Harry?” Hermione was so tired of hearing him gripe about Percy. Every letter he’d written had whined about it and she’d had to tell him to stop in _every_ reply. She supposed she could be patient, though. It wasn’t as if he could tell Harry – for some reason, not even Hermes could find the Mansion. _It’s really strange._ They’d tried to figure out why, but hadn’t had much luck yet. _But if it was Unplottable . . ._

“Yeah.” Harry brightened. “The Mansion is unbelievable, and Sirius and Remus are really cool. The Pevensies are nice too, and it’s been the best summer ever.”

It wasn’t as if Harry had a lot to choose from. She’d never met the Dursleys. _And I never want to. Awful people._

“So Sirius and Professor Lupin are coming to the Cup?” _It’s going to be really crowded in the boys’ tent if they do._

Harry’s face scrunched. “Sort of. Remus is going with us to the match, and he’ll be staying in the tent too. Sirius will be there, but he’s got to work. They need everyone on duty, because there are so many people coming.”

“He’s going to be an Auror?” Hermione sat down opposite Harry. The library didn’t have much current information – and none of the kind of things Harry probably heard from Sirius firsthand.

“Really?” Red hair spilled over Ginny’s forehead; she blew it out of her face with an irritated huff.

“He was one before -” Harry swallowed. “Before. And he went back right after the trial, to see if he could become one again. I wanted to know why, after the way they treated him – but he said he had his reasons. ”

“Huh.” Ron smoothed the front of his shirt; twisted in front of the mirror to make sure there weren’t awful wrinkles on the back.

“Did you – did you go to the trial at all?” Hermione wanted to know. She didn’t dare ask Sirius what it had been like, no matter how much she wanted to know about the Magical justice system. She wasn’t too keen on it, though, given what had happened to Sirius thirteen years ago. _It sounds like they could use a few adjustments to the system. At least, if it’s a medieval as the rest of the Wizarding world._ She loved magic, she did, but she liked technology too.

Harry shook his head. “No. Sirius didn’t want me involved at all.” He hesitated, and his face went tight the way it had first year, when they’d known Voldemort was going after the Philosopher’s Stone. But he looked at Ginny and shut his mouth, shaking his head a little.

Ginny caught the look and scowled, on the verge of –

_Uh-oh._ “Maybe you should go clean up,” Hermione suggested, covering the weird moment. _I wonder what he wants to tell us._ But it was going to have to wait; perhaps they could find time at dinner, or even before the Cup. “Should we go down and help your mum with dinner?”

Ron rolled off the other side of the bed, and jumped on another mattress between himself and the door. “Yeah, all right.”

Harry slipped into the bathroom, and emerged shaking water out of his hair. Mrs. Weasley was in the kitchen when they arrived, looking extremely happy. “We’re eating in the garden,” she said when they came in. “The Pevensies just arrived by Floo – they’re outside. There’s just not room for seventeen people in here. Could you take the plates outside, girls? The tables are all set up. Knives and forks please, you two,” she said to Ron and Harry.

Potatoes were merrily popping out of their skins as they trucked out to the garden, and Ron’s Mum had turned her attention to the dustpan.

“Hello Lucy, Susan,” Harry called. The two women turned; Lucy Pevensie had been talking to Charlie, but Bill was deep in conversation with Edmund and Susan Pevensie. Peter Pevensie was speaking with Sirius Black, Professor Lupin and Mr. Weasley. “Peter! Ed!”

A few scattered greetings came back; the two women slipped away to join Mrs. Weasley in helping finish up dinner. Bill eyed the tables and muttered an Engorgement Charm under his breath; Charlie stretched the tablecloth to match.

A streak of orange drew Hermione’s attention from setting the table.  Crookshanks, bushy tail high, chased a gnome from under a bush and into a Wellington boot. Hermione smiled to see him having fun. She caught Ron snickering as he laid out the forks; Crookshanks stuck a paw in the boot, trying to reach the gnome. She could hear the little creature’s high-pitched giggling from across the yard.

The sky was clear, deep blue at seven, when Mrs. Weasley, Lucy and Susan Pevensie brought the food out. All nine Weasleys, four Pevensies, two Marauders, and Harry and Hermione managed to fit comfortably around the tables.  She was a little surprised at that, but Engorgement Charms had been created for a reason, she supposed. _And the food is lovely._

* * *

****_(Bill)_ ** **

* * *

“ – Mr. Crouch that I’ll have it ready by Tuesday.”

_Percy really needs to calm down._ But if Bill knew anything about _that_ younger brother, it was that Percy lived for order and rules. He couldn’t help but shake his head. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was stuck making polite noises and casting pleading glances at Sirius Black for salvation.

_Not that I really think he needs it._ Bill forked a runaway potato, relishing the taste of Mum’s cooking. _If he’s the first DADA professor to last more than a year, there’s got to be more to him._ After all, the position was cursed. No teacher had been able to hold it for more than a year since the 1950’s.

Charlie and Lucy Pevensie were talking about dragons down the table; she was expressing a few noises about the disappointment of the Wizarding World’s dragons. _Charlie really likes her._ Easy to see; no one else in the family could appreciate the giant lizards enough to see Charlie really get worked up about them. He’d save that piece of information for later.

“Where did you see dragons, then?” George interrupted, interested. Bill could see part of a drawing she’d made on a napkin.

“On an island in the Eastern Sea,” was the vague reply.

_Where’s that?_ Bill bit into ham pie, his favorite.

Ron’s friend Hermione frowned. “There’s no Eastern Sea,” she said doubtfully. Bill knew she was a Muggle-born, so he supposed she’d know. He knew for certain there was no EasternSea in the Wizarding World; he’d been traveling all over the magical globe for Gringotts since before he’d graduated Hogwarts.

Her explanation was cut off when Percy burst out at the other end of the table, “When I compare him to Mr. Crouch!”

_Not again, Percy._

The twins were muttering lowly to themselves over something under the table – a Ton-Tongue Toffee, Bill had no doubt. He’d managed to extract the entire story from Ron, after luckily missing the row. Dad had warned him and Charlie about setting Mum off; they’d all been walking on eggshells for the past few days. _Not like that’ll really stop the twins._

“I can’t see Mr. Crouch losing a member of our department and not trying to find out what’s happened to them. You realize Bertha Jorkins has been missing for two weeks now? Her neighbors say she was back from holiday in Albania for three days – she even came back to work for two of them – but she hasn’t shown up since!”

“Really?” Black interjected. Bill knew he was a former Auror. The man’s plate was clean; he’d finished some time ago.

“Yes, I was asking Ludo about that,” said Dad, frowning. “He says Bertha’s gotten scattered plenty of times before now – gone running back and forth across countries because she’s forgotten something . . . though I must say, if it was someone in my department, I’d be worried . . .”

Percy rolled his eyes. “Bertha’s _hopeless._ ” He crunched around a bite of salad. “I hear she’s been shuffled from department to department for years, much more trouble than she’s worth.”

Professor Lupin was still eating. For such a thin man, he managed to put away quite a lot of food. “She was a bit like that in our Hogwarts days,” the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor said wryly. “Hufflepuff, about four years ahead of us. Always a bit featherbrained, but she was a Prefect at one point. You don’t get there by missing class.”

“That’s worrying,” Susan Pevensie put in mildly.

“And I can’t believe you got an earring with a great big fang on it.” Mum sighed.  Bill blinked. _She’s been talking all this time; maybe if I’d paid more attention . . ._ “Really, Bill, what do they say at the bank?”

“Mum, no one at the bank gives a damn how I dress as long as I bring home plenty of treasure,” Bill said patiently. Scooped another forkful of boiled potatoes and saw Ron start searching for the bowl. The Pevensies had brought bangers and mash along with a really fantastic-looking desert.

“And your hair’s getting silly, dear.” Mum had her _going-to-cut-hair_ look, aimed straight at his head. “I wish you’d let me give it a trim. . .”

Bill felt hunted. Ginny came to his rescue. “I like it. You’re so old fashioned, Mum. Anyway, it’s nowhere near as long as Professor Dumbledore’s -”

Talk of Quidditch dragged his attention away again.

“- got to be Ireland.” Charlie had drawn Lucy and the twins into a discussion of the World Cup. “Peru was flattened in the semifinals.”

Fred objected. “Bulgaria’s got Victor Krum, though.”

“Who?”

Charlie started to explain to Lucy.

George interjected, “Krum’s one decent player. Ireland’s got seven.”

“ – only wish England had gotten through,” Charlie was saying.

Bill winced. “That was embarrassing, that was.”

“Yeah,” Harry interrupted. “It was _awful_ -”

George groaned, pushing his plate away. “Crushed, by Transylvania -”

“Three hundred and ninety to ten,” Fred moaned. “Unbelievable.”

“Wales lost to Uganda, and Scotland was slaughtered by Luxembourg,” Charlie sighed.

Sudden light illuminated the darkening table from overhead; Dad had conjured candles. The food had all disappeared more effectively than any spell.

“ – going to the World Cup?” Ginny asked Edmund down the table over strawberry ice cream. Bill didn’t really know any of the Pevensies, but for what they’d done for his baby sister, he owed them.

The counselor shook his head. “No,” he smiled. “I have a lot of things to do to get ready for next year, unfortunately. So does Lucy. Susan’s closing up her work in America and Peter’s got to be back at our Ministry full-time, unfortunately. We don’t have the time.”

_Muggles at the World Cup?_ Bill didn’t think so, even though he knew they weren’t Muggles precisely. Ron and Ginny had said a few things, and he’d caught his parents speculating on it a few times. Still, no one seemed to have anything but guesses and they seemed a decent sort.

Apparently the Professor was going with Dad and everyone to look after Harry Potter, and his guardian would be there, but Black was one of the on-duty Aurors and would be working the entire time.

Something shrieked lowly – the orange cat of Hermione’s had managed to lure a gnome out of hiding in one of Percy’s Wellington boots by pretending to ignore it. The feline was now gleefully chasing the little creature across the grass. Moths fluttered near the flames above them.

“Look at the time!” Mum exclaimed. Dishes were suddenly stacked with the flick of a wand, and making their way in to the sink. “You lot need your sleep – you’ll be up at the crack of dawn to get to the Cup.” _Thank Merlin for Apparition._ He didn’t have to be up until nine.

Mum was still talking as the tablecloth disappeared. “Harry, if you’ll leave your school list out, I’ll get your things for you tomorrow at Diagon Alley. I’m getting everyone else’s. There might not be time after the World Cup, the match went on for five days last time.”

“Wow!” Harry grinned. “I hope it does this time! Thanks, Mrs. Weasley, but Sirius already took me; I’ve got everything for next year.”

“Well.” Ron saw his Mum shoot an approving glance the Auror’s way; but the man was deep in conversation with Dad and neither of them noticed.

“I certainly hope the match doesn’t take that long.” Percy pushed off from the table to precede them inside. “I _shudder_ to think of what the state of my in-tray would be if I was away from work for five days.”

“Yeah,” snorted Fred from behind. “Someone might slip dragon dung in it again, eh, Perce?”

Bill fought not to chuckle. The twins thought they were being discreet, but he’d known them since before they were born. Teeth dug into his lower lip at the sputtering sounds as Percy whirled. _I won’t laugh, I won’t laugh –_

“That was a sample of fertilizer from Norway!” Percy’s face redder than he’d seen it all week. “It was nothing _personal_!”

Bill only just managed to keep a straight face at Fred’s whisper, drifting back from just in front of him. “It was. We sent it.”

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

****_(Draco)_  ** **

* * *

“Come along, Draco.”

 _Seen, not heard._ Black robes swept the way for him, and Mother stalked proudly at Father’s side. _She’s not holding his arm._ Mother had never walked beside Father as an equal before, not that Draco could remember.

One of many changes since the beginning of the month.

_Since the night Father got that scar._

Draco’s insides knotted, but he followed Mother and Father up stairs carpeted in rich purple. They were going all the way to the top, and the only way was to climb. Not like getting here – Father had double-Apparated with him, which was technically illegal. _Better than a Portkey._ He’d never liked the grabbing feeling in his stomach dragging him along.

Then they’d had to get their campground assignment from the Muggle that Father had Memory Charmed almost as soon as he’d spoken. _“Muggles have their uses,”_ _Father sneered._ Draco’s hair had stood up at the tone of Father’s voice.

 _Not for long. I won’t have to be afraid for long. I’m so close, Nothos, so close. We’d be done if you were here, I bet._ Only a few more ingredients; things he couldn’t get because even those who dealt in Knocturn Alley wouldn’t sell them to anyone underage. _But Professor Snape can, and does buy the things I’ll need._ And if, over the course of the year, some of those items went missing . . .

The carpet got softer as they went higher; less feet mashing and dirtying it. _One hundred thousand witches and wizards . . ._ He kept his face blank, but he couldn’t wait to get to the top. Nothos would have loved this. They’d played Quidditch whenever they could –

Nails sliced the flesh of his palms. _Don’t think about it._

That was easy enough. _What are they doing here?!_

He saw Weasel twist his ugly face into a scowl, and glared right back. They weren’t supposed to be in the Top Box! What were they _doing_ here?! Potter, Weasley, Granger – Professor Lupin too, and Weasley’s dad and his slew of brothers. Jealousy flared; Draco sneered.

Fudge was greeting Father, but Draco looked around the Box instead, ignoring his schoolmates. There was a grubby little house-elf saving a seat off to one side, and a short, round wizard who was apparently the Bulgarian Minister of Magic. Draco wanted to hit something when he saw that the only three seats left were right behind the Weasleys.

Father was just as angry. “Good lord, Arthur,” he said softly. “What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn’t have fetched this much?”

Mr. Weasley’s face went red.

“Lucius,” Professor Lupin cut in smoothly. The frozen hatred in blue eyes had Draco suddenly wary, looking for the closest escape route. _Blocked._ Father on one side, Mother on the other. _No way out –_

But this was his Professor. And he had the vaguest of feelings that he could trust Lupin. _Edmund does._ The eyes flicked up and down, and Draco shivered.

“Demonstrating yet again that money can’t buy manners, I see,” Professor Lupin continued calmly.

“Lupin,” Father spat. The scar twisted; Draco swallowed. “Still hanging about with the blood-traitor? I didn’t think teachers were paid enough that you could rise so high.” Draco frowned. _What does he know that I don’t?_ Because Father knew something, for certain.

Behind him, Draco knew the Bulgarian Minister of Magic was hanging on every word. He kept his face blank, seeing Potter, Granger and Weasley glowering at him. Lupin only raised a brow. “You would do well to watch your words,” was the smooth response. “They might do your reputation irreparable harm. But you would know about marks that can’t be removed.”

Father’s face froze in a scowl that never boded well. Draco shivered. _I’ve seen that look before._ Not two weeks ago, when that fool Gibbon had tried to defy his father. _Blood. There was so much blood on his robes –_

His parents thought they could hide from him; but watchful as they were, his eyes were everywhere. _I don’t see everything, but I see more than they imagine_. It meant survival.

Draco shot Potter, Weasley, and Granger one contemptuous look before settling down between his parents. _And what would they know about it? Nothing._ Naïve fools, trusting blindly to the greater good and that doddering Dumbledore . . . Unlike his Potions professor, Draco did not trust the ancient wizard. He knew from the other side how effective the Order of the Phoenix had been.

“Slimy gits,” he heard the Weasel say, not even bothering to keep his voice down. Bay wood was silk against clenching fingers. _No._ He would _not_ throw a curse at the Quidditch World Cup. He was going to watch the match and have fun.

 _Plus, Father might be angry if I did something that stupid  in front of our Minister of Magic. Or Bulgaria’s, at least._ The Weasel was _not_ going to ruin his day.

Bright yellow robes holding back a fat belly burst into the Top Box; ice-blue eyes stared. _Who in Merlin’s name is that?_ The robes were the old Wimbourne Wasp uniform, one he’d only seen in  Quidditch Through the Ages.

“Everyone ready?” the round man said. “Minister – ready to go?”

“Ready when you are, Ludo.” The Minister sounded pompously powerful. Draco rolled his eyes. _Ludo? Ludo Bagman? Father said he was the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Him? Oh, come on!_ It was not hard to believe, though, the way Fudge ran the Ministry.

However dumpy the man seemed, his voice sparked the first bit of honest excitement Draco had felt in months. Mother’s sharp nudge to his side wiped the grin off his face, but it still bubbled inside.

Bagman’s voice sounded normal to those sitting nearby, but the echo boomed throughout the stadium. “Ladies and gentlemen . . . Welcome! Welcome to the final of the four-hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

_Awesome!_

* * *

******_(Krum)_ ** ** **

* * *

“Победа.” Dimitrov’s red robes were bunched, their Капитан smiling grimly at all of them. Krum took a moment to gaze about their huddle. Zograf’s face was impassive as always, good for a Keeper, while Levski looked sick. Ivanova, their third Chaser, was pale yet steady. _Always the same, until we are out on the pitch._ Then, _then_ , they would play.  Volkov and Vulchanov, the Beaters, were juggling not only their brooms but bats as well, knuckles white on the wood of each.

**“. . . the Irish National Team Mascots!”**

A roar from the stadium shook the air around them; Dimitrov gave him a piercing stare. “I leave you to make the decision, Victor.”

Victor nodded. _We will have victory. On our terms._ They all knew that Ireland was a good team. They were at the Quidditch World Cup, to match themselves against the very best. Krum was honest about his ability, and that of his opponent. Today, he felt at his best. _Today, I am better than Lynch._

The crowd _oooh_ ed and _aaaah_ ed, and applause made the very air tremble. The sound only slowly faded.

“Formation!”

They mounted their brooms, waiting for the call; the gates opened.

**“And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome – the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you – Dimitrov!”**

The Капитан was gone in a blur of Firebolt and red robes.

Rapid-fire, names were followed by each of his teammates. **“Ivanova! Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand . . .”**

Victor leant low over his broom.

**_“Krum!”_ **

Wind scraped back his hair; black eyes squinted to see through a rush of tears conjured by the sudden speed. Any anxiety he’d had was left tied to the ground, while he flew free above it. They circled the goalposts, settling into formation in the middle of the pitch and hovered, in wait.

The speaker’s voice was cheerfully blaring out across the stadium, and Victor wanted only to begin. **“And now, please greet – the Irish National Quidditch Team! Presenting – Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaaand – _Lynch_!”**

The green-clad team burst one by one from the opposite end of the field; Victor watched their control over the Firebolts as they circled the goalposts and approached. The brooms were the fastest things to come out into the market since the Cleansweep revolution fifty years ago – the game suddenly was too fast for thought, and faster by far than reaction. That it was more dangerous, traveling at such higher speeds, was obvious.

 _They look as they’ve had much time to practice._ He’d expected no less; he’d come across some teams whose budget only recently allowed the upgrade in equipment, but those had been still adjusting, and never even made it to the first round of finals.

**“And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!”**

The small, skinny man’s gold robes were clearly visible, and Victor spared a moment’s humor over the massive moustache dangling from his lip. The man mounted his broom, kicking the crate open; Krum watched Lynch.

 _There is no use in trying to track every movement of the snitch._ Bulgaria would be better served by him disabling Lynch, keeping the other Seeker from ending the game on Ireland’s terms. _Both on Firebolts._ That part of the game, usually open to much variation given player preference, was leveled. He was better than Lynch, but keeping the other wizard distracted would solidify victory.

The announcer’s voice registered, but only faintly. **“Theeeeeeeey’re OFF! And it’s Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!”**

He dove through the air, but efforts to hamper the Irish Chasers came to nothing. _Hawkshead Attack - they are very good._ But he must give it time. _Porskoff Ploy, and then the -_

Too late.

**“TROY SCORES!”**

But the game the others played was inconsequential, to him, although he could see Volkov and Vulchanov lose their nervousness at last in anger. _Perhaps this is what we need, to –_

**“IVANOVA SCORES! And it’s 10-10! Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov!”**

Victor allowed himself a small smile. Lynch was darting through the movement below, actively searching for the Snitch. _Perhaps it is time, then. . ._

The ground came into alarmingly quick focus; he was diving, down, and Lynch was at his shoulder – _Not yet . . ._

Wind tore at his robes; Lynch was urging his own broom ahead –

_Not yet . . ._

And there was no more room between them and the ground for the Snitch to be in without being in plain sight –

_Now!_

_Crunch._

He spiraled up through the air, knowing from the heavy thud of body and dirt that Lynch hadn’t pulled out in time. 

**“It’s a time-out, as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!”**

Victor had time, now, and black eyes darted around the pitch as he circled slowly.

Dangerous move, the Wronski Feint. One no Seeker could afford to ignore, difficult to pull off correctly. _But now, the advantage is mine._ Knocked hard against the ground, Lynch would be that much slower, that much more cautious, in the next dive.

Cheering from the crown yanked his attention to the ground; Lynch was mounting his broom again. A shrill whistle started the Chasers’ action once more.

**“Mullet! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Dimitrov! Ivanova! Troy! Mullet – MORAN SCORES!”**

Lynch was watching him carefully. _Good. Watch me, and your eyes are too busy to find the Snitch before I do._

Little he could do to aid the rest of his team now. The Irish outmaneuvered them; he would hope Ivanova, Dimitrov and Levski could begin to counter them, but the fight was between himself and Lynch now.

And it only got worse.

**“Troy! Mullet! Levski – back to Moran! Troy! Moran! TROY SCORES! The score is now 30 to 10, Ireland! And Dimitrov has the Quaffle – Levski, Ivanova, Dimi – no, Moran! Troy! Mullet! MULLET SCORES!”**

This was not good. Not fifteen minutes of searching had passed when Victor heard, **“Ireland in the lead by one-hundred and thirty to ten! And it’s Mullet, Moran, Troy, Moran, Mullet -”** A dark noise erupted from the crowd. **“And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, to task for cobbing – excessive use of elbows! And – yes, it’s a penalty to Ireland!”**

It was over. _We cannot win this way._ But still, Победа. They would have whatever victory pride and skill could allow. _I must get the Snitch._ If he could do so quickly, they might still bring the Cup home to Bulgaria.

Victor snared the time waiting for the game to resume by searching for the Snitch – so absolute was his focus, that he didn’t realize until he heard the announcer, the voice almost laughing. **“Now, we can’t have that! Someone slap the referee!”**

A glance down showed Mostafa smoothing his massive moustache, flexing muscles before their dancing Veela. A mediwizard raced across the field to kick him – Krum returned his eyes to the pitch, waiting for the game to begin. _Where are you – you must be somewhere . . ._

Muttering in the spectators rose to a high murmur.

**“And unless I’m much mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots! Now _there’s_ something we haven’t seen before . . . Oh, this could turn nasty. . .”**

Victor glared. _If they want to remove the Veela, let them, you fools –_ Vulchanov and Volkov, though, were stubborn and thick-headed Beaters if ever he had known any. _The advantage of their distraction has done nothing to Ireland. But turn the referee against us. . ._ If their teammates were foolish enough to do so, and the Snitch eluded both Seekers for hours, the match would become a slaughter. _We would never erase the shame._

He _had_ to find the Snitch.

Air whirled as he scanned the pitch, flying high and searching downward. The gloating Irish mascots were not worth his concentration; but the glint of gold shine from the leprechauns might mask the Snitch.

**“Two penalties for Ireland! And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms . . . yes . . . there they go . . . and Troy takes the Quaffle . . .”**

He had only a moment to worry about Lynch, however, before he saw Dimitrov shoot forward toward the Quaffle, desperate and ready to try anything.

“Foul!” Green burst out of the stands toward them. The audience was screaming –

And the announcer followed. **“Foul! Dimitrov skins Moran – deliberately flying to collide there – and it’s got to be another penalty – yes, there’s the whistle!”**

But the Veela had begun to show their anger; loosing violent tempers to shapeshift into Valkyries. Chaos boiled over on the field below – Victor looked a moment to see Lynch on level with him, but a flash of gold caught his attention and he began to drift down, ignoring the shout of the crowd and blasts of magic below.

**“Levski – Dimitrov – Moran – Troy – Mullet – Ivanova – Moran again – Moran – MORAN SCORES! And it’s Levski – Dimitrov -”**

Movement.

Victor ducked – _Лайно_ _!_

Pain blasted in the crunch of cartilage, the bruising of bones in his face slamming blackness down. Sound trailed away – he couldn’t feel his body -

He’d taken a bludger to the face before. _The Snitch!_ Warm wetness trailed from his broken nose, the ringing in his ears drowning out even the noises of the crowd. Victor blinked open blackened, painful eyes. _What did I miss! Lynch – where is he –_

Green robes plunged downward.

Victor threw himself forward – the wood under his hands slick with sweat and blood – the same dripping in his eyes – green robes, and beyond them, the glint of gold. _Closer._ Tail of a broom; he could almost reach out and touch.

_Closer . . ._

Green robes pressed against his own scarlet-clad shoulder. No time for the ground, coming nearer and nearer as breath was ripped from his lungs.

_Reach!_

Cool, and smooth, and tiny feathers struggling delicately against his grasp.

_Up!_

_Crunch._ For the second time, Lynch was so much mess on the grass. Veela stamped angrily across him; the Irish Seeker was momentarily lost to sight. Victor rose higher, determined to have no part of the madness on the ground.

 _The Snitch._ Careful not to crush it, he felt the fluttering of it against one calloused, bloodied palm. _It has a heartbeat._ This was the moment that made each game worth it.

**“IRELAND WINS! KRUM GETS THE SNITCH – BUT IRELAND WINS – good lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!”**

_I was._ They were headed back to the landing site behind the Top Box now, and Victor felt the Snitch cool against his fingers. Black eyes squinted through a mess of blood and sweat, seeking the scoreboard.

**BULGARIA** **: 160,     IRELAND: 170**

Dimitrov’s face was dark, fingers warm on his shoulder. “It was the right decision, Victor.” Vulchanov and Volkov were angry, but the other Chasers and Zograf agreed. “To the Box, then, eh?”

**“And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box! Let’s have a really loud hand for the gallant losers – Bulgaria!”**

His eyes were stinging, and he could only breathe through his mouth. But as he stepped through the door, the silvery sheen of the Cup broke through even that haze. Dimitrov was first in line, shaking hands with their Minister; Krum stood last. Concentrating on the metal coolness in his hand, he started at his name.

A roar filled his ears – the crowd, cheering. The Minister’s hand was firm; Victor clasped it and stood back.

**“And the Champions of the four-hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . . IRELAND!”**

Victor felt the Snitch flutter once more, and tightened his grip.

* * *

****_(Robard)_  ** **

* * *

“What a _disaster._ ”

 _Ben looks how I feel._ With torn, spell-seared robes and smoke smudged over round features, the other wizard looked like he’d only just survived a war.

“Veela rampaging all over the place, and then half of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad getting involved – calming a riot is _not_ the same as correcting someone who’s been splinched, for Merlin’s sake.” The slighter man’s frame heaved in a sigh. “Thank goodness those Hit Wizards we do have present had the sense to stay out of it -”

Gawain pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing the headache back. _They don’t pay us enough for this._ “What’re the final numbers on it, then?”

The inked calculations on the parchment were busily neatening themselves from Ben’s illegible scribble as he took it, but the end results were painfully clear.

“No one was killed, thank Merlin.” Ben slumped into one of the stadium chairs not far from where an impromptu tent had been erected on the tent for the mediwitches. The crowd had trickled out to only a few hundred people scattered about; the rest were at their campsites, celebrating. _I think I’d rather be here than regulating_ that. “And only sixteen people were injured with anything more than bangs and bruises. Of those, two are borderline-critical.” Lips more used to smiling were pressed thin. “Almost got trampled to death.”

“Damn leprechauns.” _And there are still a few of them running around, no matter that the manager says they got them all. . ._ The pounding behind his temples got louder.

“Damn Veela,” Ben managed a grin. _Better. Can’t lose all energy now – we still have the whole night ahead of us._ “But on the upside, I managed to convince the Department Heads to go back to their campsites, and leave everything to us.”

“Good,” Gawain grunted, absently popping his spine as he stood. “I’d really like to avoid dealing with Crouch tonight. Have Lin and Hawsley reported back about the Veela yet?”

Hair more brown than blond shook in the negative. “Not to me.”

“We’ll have to check up on it, then. Ireland’s manager told us that she’d gotten the leprechauns settled in and secured, but I think there are still some loose. We’ll have to keep eyes on that that all night. I want to check up on them first. And if Hawsley hasn’t gotten the Veela squared away by the time we get to the Bulgarian campsite, we can make his life a living Hades.”

Ben snickered.

Gawain grinned. _Chris really does need to learn how to lighten up._ For an Auror, the man was too tightly wound. _Hate to think about what he was like before training . . ._

Gawain let them out of the pitch, and toward the secluded, hidden spot where the Irish Quidditch Team was camped, with their equipment and mascots and out of the reach of the majority of fans. He nodded to a solemn-faced trainee on guard duty, and was recognized. The two of them passed, and Gawain turned their feet toward the Irish half of the campsites.

“Even have the trainees jumping, huh?”

“We’re out in force tonight.” Gawain shook his head. They’d been working to secure the area for the Quidditch World Cup while the rest of the Ministry was involved in creating the stadium and enchantments that would support a hundred thousand wizards for as long as three weeks. _After all, people not only have to arrive at a scheduled time but leave the same way . . ._

Even with the supplementary forces pulled out of reserve and a bit of help from the Bulgarian Guard, they were pathetically understaffed. _Less than three hundred Aurors to police over one hundred thousand spectators?_

It was too sad to be funny.

 _We’re just not prepared for anything on this scale!_ And all their drills and protocols had done little to compensate for that. _Especially when our own Ministry members take it into their foolish heads to jump right into the thick of it without looking first!_

Ben was talking. “– two most serious injuries were given good prognoses, though. And with any luck, that was our disaster for this whole nightmare.”

“Didn’t you enjoy the match?” Gawain smirked, feeling the grass wet under his feet; one of the first warning wards that they were coming up on the Irish team’s campsite. After all, it wasn’t _quite_ chilly enough for dew to form the grass, nor was it late enough – but it was something no one would think twice about. _Subtle. Black does good work._

“Match? What, was someone playing Quidditch out here today?”

Momentarily distracted, the Head of the Aurors chuckled.

Especially because the dew was simply a warning. Gawain looked back; just barely visible, their footprints showed the straight-line path they thought they’d been walking was a lie. Bare marks in wet grass traced the curve they’d been making as they were, step by step, ever-so-slightly diverted from where they intended to be. _Until we passed right by, without realizing it at all._

Only the correct password would let them move forward and actually _reach_ their destination.

“ _Slante.”_

And the feel of power rippling away shivered over their skins.

“Wow. Who put that up?” Ben looked a little unnerved; Gawain didn’t blame him. The magic that had so carefully threatened them was potent in a way few magics were. _Without being deadly to the caster, at least._

He’d seen the effort that went into putting this up. Considerable, yes, but by no means the limit of that particular wizard’s ability. _If rumors are anything to go by._ _It seems purebloods do have a reason for their ideals._ Not one he agreed with, but now he had an idea why so many of them went to such lengths to ensure solid Wizarding ancestry. “Black.”

Ben paused a minute before answering, and Gawain could see he was surprised. “Huh. But I know I’m going to enjoy the match when I finally get to see it,” Ben returned to their original conversation. “I was so busy making sure that the Veela didn’t rip apart members of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, that I completely missed the end of the match. _Administrators._ ” Green eyes flicked to the sky in irritation. “If any one of them ever actually dealt with anything more dangerous than a Diricawl, I’ll eat my shamrock hat. Anyway. My son and daughter were up in the stands with a pair of Omnioculars and orders to record it for me.”

 _Second ward – where’s the ward-key –_ Silver whisked through the sun’s last rays. Not subtle at all; a rising sheen of power preventing them from moving further. Anne Lin’s work he was more familiar with. Gawain smiled. _The two of them do work well together._ “Boiled Boxty.”

Ben snorted. “Anne’s sense of humor just keeps getting better and better . . .”

And finally the third ward, most frightening of them all, since five wizards had joined forces to raise it. But beyond that stood the impressive tent of Ireland’s Quidditch team, with another large canvas construction some ten meters away. Shimmering gold bands formed a net adhering to the material. _The leprechaun cage._

They were classified as Magical Creatures and regulated by the Ministry. Even better, they were native to the British Isles, and less troublesome than the foreign sirens and harpies rolled into one. _Better find the manager._ He pushed the team’s tent flap back and stepped inside, freezing when he saw who was waiting. “What are _you_ doing here?”

At his side, Ben stiffened.

“Hey, Gawain.” Rob Channesy, lead investigative reporter for the _Daily Prophet,_ grinned up at him from the middle of Ireland’s tent. “Getting exclusives, of course. Want to tell me what happened with cleaning up that disaster on the pitch?”

Ben was almost ready to burst. Gawain spared an eye for him, and then smiled at Rob. “Later, Rob. Ah, Ben, this is Rob Channesy, with the _Daily Prophet._ Rob, this is Auror Ben Travers.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Rob offered a smile and a handshake.

Ben kept his hand on his wand. “How did you get in here?” The name had garnered a softening of features – Rob Channesy was the only reporter that Gawain Robard, head of the Auror division, would deal with. But the fact that he _was_ a reporter put a glint of wariness in every Auror’s eye.

Unfazed, hazel eyes sparked with mischief. The reporter shrugged innocently. “How does anyone get anywhere, Gawain? I followed the team, asked nicely, and they let me in.”

 _Of course he wasn’t going to tell me._ But he found himself laughing nonetheless. “You’re a menace, Rob. You know that?”

“So is that a yes to an interview on the riot?”

 _That_ finally wrestled a small smile from Ben. “I see what you mean,” he muttered to Gawain. The Head of the Aurors had built a small reputation on his ability to convince anyone to join their ranks – and had only ever been out-stubborned by the reporter standing a few steps away.

“I thought you were here to interview the team?” A glance around the green tent, illuminated by gently glowing golden lanterns, revealed that the main entrance area was otherwise empty. _Where are they?_

“I really wanted to talk to Lynch, but that last hit left him a little dazed.” Rob fingered the Muggle-style pad of parchment and the strange pen that he always carried. Odd habit, but he was Muggle-born. “The rest of the team members are celebrating with their families for a bit before the late-night partying starts.” The reporter waved towards the sides of the tents; for the first time, Gawain noticed that doors lined each wall, emblazoned in gold with each player’s name.

“Do you know where the manager is?” Safe bet; Rob usually knew everything he could before starting in on a story. _How he does it, I’ll never know – but for ‘research’, he gets better info than we do, sometimes._ If it had been anyone else, he would have tried to wriggle it out of them, but Rob had remained steadfast in never betraying a source.            

Rob walked to a side hallway hidden by a corner. “Moyra Donovan’s room is down here. What do you want her for?”

“Just to inspect the leprechauns, make sure they’re properly contained.” _And since I already know they’ve missed a few . . . Yeah. This is going to be fun._ Gawain tugged a hand through his own hair, snagging a few curls with a wince.

“Mind if I tag along?”

 _This_ was why he’d never been able to persuade the man to join the Aurors. _Relentless bugger._ “No,” Gawain gave in. Better just to save face now. _If it can be called that._

Ben wasn’t able to quite hide his smirk; but that was Rob. People liked him against their better judgment, at times. Gawain heaved a sigh. _Pushed around by a reporter. I might live it down one day. Maybe._

“Could be worse,” Ben snickered.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It could be Skeeter.”

* * *

****_(George_ )** **

* * *

_Six hundred ninety-five . . . what a way to turn a profit!_ Bagman _had_ given them incredible odds. George smirked. _Then again, he thought he was taking our money for sure._

“ _Don’t_ tell your mother you’ve been gambling.”

George rolled his eyes.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” his twin said gleefully. Fred had another sack stowed away in his pocket. They’d totaled it with Bagman. _No way do I trust him further than I can throw him._ “We’ve got big plans for this money. We don’t want it confiscated.”

“No kidding,” George whispered. Dad looked almost as if he wanted to ask _what_ , precisely, their plans were, but then sighed and turned to Professor Lupin instead.

“What is that?”

George listened, mimicking his twin. But the music was too far for them to hear; until the people in the crowd around them, all decked in green, recognized the tune and began to sing. _“- drink, and drink, and drink, and drink, and drink, and fight! Oh, we’ll drink and drink and drink and drink and drink and drink and fight! And if I see a pretty girl, I’ll sleep with her tonight!”_

“Oooh,” Fred snickered. George grinned.

“Behave, you two,” Bill interjected. _Hah! Never!_ But Charlie was still talking about the Wronski Feint with Harry; their oldest brother’s attention didn’t last long.

And then the song started up again. George couldn’t resist, and knew his twin wouldn’t either. He opened his mouth. “Oh, we’ll drink and drink and drink and drink and drink and drink and fight!”

_Ssshhhhhzoooom!_

_Crack!_

“What the -”

“Look up!” It was Ginny, waving excitedly toward the sky.

_Ssshhhhhzoooom!_

Green streaked the darkening sky. _When did it get so late?_

“Leprechauns!”

“Yes.” In the light from the green-clad creatures’ lanterns, Professor Lupin looked amused. “I’m glad I’m not in Sirius’ shoes. Nothing is going to keep the Irish quiet tonight.”

Weird as it was to have their Professor with them, seeing him verbally take out Malfoy had been _great._ Dad couldn’t have said much, and George still boiled over with anger at the pureblood’s snobbery. _Berk._ It had been worth it to see him embarrassed in front of the Minister, not that Fudge had really noticed.

“What do you think?” He nudged Fred.

“I think we’ve almost got enough to start off,” was the low answer. Something exploded overhead in a shower of sparkling gold; the Irish all around them were singing loud enough that none of the family would overhear. _It’s not that they wouldn’t care. It’s that they’d tell Mum, and then we’d be done for._

“All we need to do now -”

“- is find a few more _investments_ ,” George finished, one hand casually testing the weight dragging down his pocket.

Fred had an identical hand on his own bag of gold. “So it’s Hogwarts for another year, then.”

_Ssshhhhhzoooom!_

_Pop!_

“Have to.” George grimaced, ducking as an enthusiastic Irish fan popped a bottle of sparkling wine. The alcohol sprayed their clothes. “Ahh, Mum’s going to kill us -”

“Not as long as she doesn’t find out,” Fred hissed. His wand came out. _“Scourgify.”_

“Fred, what about Underage Wizardry?” Hermione caught the whispered spell.

George snorted, turning the spell on himself. Ducked an exuberant rain of shamrocks from another fan’s overenthusiastic spell. “Hermione, right now I think the Ministry’s got bigger problems.”

Harry snorted, brushing the tiny green plants from his hair. Something _bang_ ed to their right; the refrain of another raucous song was drifting toward them through the crowd. “Like getting the Irish to shut up -”

“Are we there yet?”

“Quit whining, Ronniekins.” Fred took the words straight from George’s brain. Dirt smeared across their younger brother’s nose, but at least he and Ginny, Harry and Hermione got to be on the inside. He and Fred were stuck on the outer edges of their group, along with Percy, Bill and Charlie. Dad and Professor Lupin had the worst of it, shoving a path for them through the celebratory Irish.

Ron growled. _“Fred -”_

Hermione interrupted. “Wait, Professor Lupin, what did you say?”

Just ahead of them, their professor turned as much as the crush of the crowd would allow, and smiled. “I heard that Binns is retiring, and Dumbledore’s already hired a replacement.”

_Ssshhhhhzoooom!_

_Damn leprechauns are everywhere . . ._ George blinked, and pushed Ginny a little further inside the group, away from the various elbows digging into his left side. “You mean, History of Magic’s going to be an actual _class?_ ”

“With _work?_ ” Fred sounded as disgusted as he felt.

Hermione looked thrilled.

Harry and Ron traded looks best described as alternately interested and dismayed.

Professor Lupin laughed.

 _Oops._ Well, it was really _hard_ to treat him like a teacher all the time, especially when he’d been cheering Ireland on as loudly as they had. _And for a Hogwarts professor, Lupin’s pretty cool._ He managed to be _interesting_ for a whole year. George was actually glad they’d have another year of him before they dropped out. _If Mum and Dad were paying, we’d just take our tuition and start off._ But financial aid was earmarked only for education, according to the Ministry guidelines and rules that saw they got any at all.

“So d’you know who it is?” Ginny pressed forward; hard not to, even though at the back Bill was doing his best to give them all a little room. _Thick crowd – don’t some of these people camp around here?_

Most though seemed to be going at least as far as they were, on the outer campsites. Further to walk, but also further from the chaos surrounding the stadium.

“His name’s Will Stanton.” George caught a glimpse of a smile he’d seen in the mirror, on the morning of a prank. “He’s a Muggle.”

“Really?” And Dad was off again; George glanced at his twin, and the two shared a shrug. Pranking opportunities – to test their products, of course – looked plentiful. _But if Dumbledore puts half the protections on him that the Pevensies got, there’ll be no luck there._

Still . . . there were possibilities.  

“Ah, here we are!” Dad led them away from the mad crush and down a lesser-traveled route through tents toward their campsite.

“Thank Merlin,” muttered Charlie; he and Bill had gotten the roughest part of the crowd, tailing their group to make sure no one got separated. Percy’s hair was upended; George stifled a snicker. _Perfect Percy, rumpled from mingling with us common folk._

_Ssshhhhhzoooom!_

“Someone should get those under control.” Percy, again – but George was starting to agree. _Hex me now. I’m agreeing with Percy?_ The noise was good for surprise, but from a distance it was just annoying, and the light from the leprechauns’ lanterns didn’t carry as far between the tents.

_Really dark – oof!_

George found his feet again, almost smacking the person in front of him between the shoulder blades. “Sorry, Harry.” Didn’t want to be damaging their own Seeker after all, what with school starting so soon.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” He’d tripped over the WEEZLY sign that marked their campsite. George looked at the snapped-off end of the sign, and shoved it back in the dirt where it tilted drunkenly.

“And we’re here!”

“Dad sounds relieved,” Fred whispered. Behind canvas, the sounds of the crowd were muffled.

“ _I’m_ relieved,” Percy sniffed, catching the words. _That’s the thing with big families. There are_ people _all over the place!_ “When I think of how Mr. Crouch must be dealing with this unruly -”

“Yes, Weatherby, I’m sure you’ll get an emergency call if he needs to hold your hand,” George snorted. _All summer of ‘Mr. Crouch’ this, and ‘Mr. Crouch’ that, and he even knows Dad, but he doesn’t know Percy’s name. This is going to be good for at least the next three months._

Percy reddened, sitting down at the table.

“All right, then.” Dad’s Muggle clothes were a bit stained, but he still hadn’t gone for his robes. “It’s getting late, I think everyone should be off to bed -”

“Oh, no!”

“Come _on,_ Dad!”

“No way!”

“Remus, _please?_ ”

“Oh, Mr. Weasley, it’s still early yet -”

“Daddy, do we _have_ to?” Ginny’s plea was the one that seemed to clinch it. Soulful eyes fixed on their father until he sighed.

Professor Lupin shook his head, fighting a grin.

Dad’s wand came out; George traded a grin with Fred and immediately claimed a seat at the table. A flick had the kettle on, and mugs shot across the tiny kitchenette toward the rickety table.

“Well then. How about something warm to drink?”

* * *

****_(Hermione)_ ** **

* * *

Hot chocolate heated the ceramic under her fingers.

“- have to pull it off just right,” Charlie was saying down the table. “If you don’t manage to make the other Seeker smear himself over the pitch, then you lose the advantage.”

 _What, that Wonky Faint thing? Harry, don’t try it!_ But she had the feeling he would anyway, from the furor of the argument that had just burst into life between him, Ron, the twins, and Charlie.

“It’s only when the elbows are used offensively that cobbing’s considered a penalty,” Professor Lupin pointed out.

“Well, how do you define ‘offensive’?” Bill drawled. Ceramic rested emptily on the table before him.  

“Well, not just sticking out like this.” Mr. Weasley brought both fists level with his chest, elbows jutting out. Hermione hid a smile in her coca. “But that does depend on the referee. Mostafa was being pretty strict about it -”

“But then Bulgaria was playing dirty,” Bill added.

 _Were they ever! If they weren’t trying to use the Veela to cheat, why did they bring them?_ But it hadn’t seemed to work – at least on the opposite team, though the fans were fair game. _I wonder why . . ._

“It wasn’t as bad as the last World Cup,” her Professor interjected. Hermione leant forward over the table. _The last World Cup?_

Mr. Weasley frowned. “I missed that one; couldn’t even hear the radio commentary. It was in France, wasn’t it?”

“Yep,” Bill fiddled a moment with the tie to his hair. “Transylvania against Canada. Lasted five days.”

“How often is the World Cup held?” Hermione asked. Her coca was chilled, but still sweet. _I’ve never heard of it before, but then again, I have better things to do in the library than read about Quidditch._

“It’s a biannual tournament,” Professor Lupin responded. He took a careful sip of coca, and made a face. _Cold, probably._ “Held every other year. It started not long after the game’s invention, when better spells for broomsticks began to be developed. Nine hundred years ago or so. But I’d think your new History of Magic professor would know more.”

“You said he was a -”

_Splash!_

“Ow!”

“Yikes!” Harry pushed away from the table, avoiding the stream of coca rushing toward him.

Hermione righted the coca mug, but the damage was done. “Ginny, are you all right?”

Ginny’s front was dripping chocolate, and the younger girl was glaring at a bruised elbow with sleepy eyes. At her left, the argument between the twins, Charlie and Ron never faltered.

“Oh dear,” Mr. Weasley sighed, wand coming out once more. “Ginny, sweetheart, turn this way – _Scourgify._ There.”

Professor Lupin muttered another spell that wiped the table clean of the sticky-sweet mess. “I think that might be enough for one night,” he sighed.

Mr. Weasley nodded. “All right, you lot, to bed.”

“Awww, Dad -”

“Now, George.”

“Goodnight,” Hermione said brightly.

“G’night, Hermione. G’night, Ginny!”

Fun as the day had been, it was awfully cramped in that tent, and the smell kept making her think that she needed to change Crookshanks’ litter tray. _And there’s to be nine of them sleeping in there._ Thank goodness the girls got a tent to themselves! It was a lot smaller than the boys’, but positively spacious after the crush of people crammed in there.

There were two twin beds in a small bedroom off the main room of the tent. Mr. Weasley kissed Ginny goodnight, told them to lock the door behind him, and went back to his tent.

“Today was the best day ever!” Ginny’s voice trailed off into a yawn.

“It was a lot of fun,” Hermione agreed. She waited for a bit, but nothing else came from the other side of the room. “Ginny?”

Closed eyes, even breathing. _Asleep._

Hermione rolled a little, trying to get comfortable in the small bed. Seeing how everything was set up had been interesting! _Anti-Muggle and anti-Apparition wards. But they still used Muggle campsites. Poor Mr. Roberts._

It was necessary, of course – but to Memory Charm the poor man so many times . . . _It’s not as if there are long-term effects from a Memory Charm. No one but the caster knows that a good one’s been placed._ But there’d been an awful lot of wizards casting the charm on him, and not all of them were certified Obliviators. Hermione chewed her lip. _I don’t know that it seems right . . ._ After all, her parents knew about the Wizarding world, and they didn’t need to be Memory Charmed.

She didn’t want to think about it anymore. Hermione twisted again, determined to blank her mind and go to sleep. The sugar from the hot chocolate was probably keeping her up. She concentrated on breathing, slow and steady, and thought about nothing.

_What is that?_

A roar was growing, like faint thunder punctuated with explosions. The Irish were still celebrating. _Can’t they keep it down? Some people_ are _trying to sleep!_

_BOOM!_

Heart leaping in her throat, Hermione grabbed her wand. _What was that?!_ “Ginny!”

The younger girl just snuggled her head deeper under her pillow. Hermione blinked, swallowing her racing heart. _How does she sleep through that?_ Well, Ginny was used to things exploding, living with the twins –

_Bang!_

A little softer, but she still started. She could take apart the roar of the crowd now – the noise of spells blowing things up, and raucous laughter. _I really hope the Aurors get here soon and calm them down-_

_Bang! Bang-bang-bang!_

Not spells, Hermione reassured herself, staggering out of the bed. _Someone’s knocking. Who –_

“Ginny! Hermione! Wake up, now!” Mr. Weasley. And he sounded desperate.

Hand on the lock, Hermione stared out the door. “Mr. Weasley, what’s -”

“Daddy?”

“No time, girls.” He’d pulled on some clothes over his pajamas, but his hair was still ruffled from sleep. “Grab your wands and a coat – get outside, quickly. Come on!”

Stuffing shoes on her feet took precious seconds; grabbing her coat, Hermione pushed Ginny ahead of her out the door. Ron, Harry, Fred and George were waiting.

By the light of the few fires that were still burning, she could see witches and wizards darting into the woods, running away from the mob that was moving toward them. Odd flashes of light and noises like gunfire burst intermittently from the crowd. Loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells were drifting towards them; then came a burst of strong green light which illuminated the scene.

_Oh my God . . ._

Death Eaters.

Their robes were black, and they were wearing hoods and masks just like she’d seen in pictures in the books about the rise of the Dark Lord. Then she saw their wands. _Pointing . . . up?_

“That’s sick,” Ron muttered, disgusted. “That is really sick.”

“Mr. Roberts and his family. . .” Hermione gasped. It was the campground manager who had given them their campsite. The four figures were being contorted, manipulated into grotesque shapes by the laughing crowd below. Two of the figures were very small. _They’re just little children!_

And – _I can’t believe it!_ – more wizards, not wearing Death Eater robes, were falling in with the crowd, blasting tents out of their way and laughing. Small fires burned everywhere now, and the screaming was getting louder. _Oh my God – they’re headed this way!_

“Hermione. _Hermione._ ” Professor Lupin had a hand on her elbow. “Ron, Harry, Fred, George, Ginny! Come on!”

Four figures brushed by them. _Wait – Mr. Weasley? Bill? Charlie? Percy? What are they -_

“Come on!” Professor Lupin was shouting. “We’ve got to get to the forest. Grab hands, and _stick together!”_

Ron protested, even as Fred and George grabbed Ginny tightly by both hands and started to follow Lupin, who had one hand in Harry’s and wasn’t letting go. “But what about -”

“Your dad and brothers went to help the Ministry,” Lupin urged them all together. Something dangerous was glittering in his eyes. “They’ll find us when it’s over. Move. _Now!_ ”        

“Come on, go!” Fred shouted to be heard over a swell of noise.

Hermione glanced back at a sudden roar of laughter from the crowd. They’d flipped Mrs. Roberts upside-down, her nightdress falling to reveal voluminous drawers. But the woman didn’t move to cover herself up, limbs hanging limply. The crowd screeched and hooted with glee. The littlest child was spinning like a top – but none of the Roberts’ family were moving on their own.

Dread curled her stomach as tree trunks obscured the sight. _What have they done?_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A few translational notes.
> 
>  
> 
> Победа – victory (Bulgarian).
> 
> Капитан – captain (Bulgarian).  
> Лайно – damn (Bulgarian).  
> Slante – [pronounced ‘slan-cha’], meaning “health” (Irish). Usually a toast.


	3. Chapter 3

 

* * *

****_(Channesy)_ ** **

* * *

_Where did they come from?!_

A shove bounced him off green-and-gold patterned canvas. Rob kept his feet with difficulty.

_Forget where they came from – get the hell out of the way!_

Easier thought than done. He couldn't see; only the flickering of fires illuminated the drunken mob. A brilliant flash of green light made him flinch.

"Hah! Look at 'em dance!"

"- drink and drink and fight!"

He  _had_ to get out of here.  _And how are you going to do that? Yell, 'stop the mob, I want to get off!'?_  Something slammed against him; another wizard, breath an alcoholic haze.

Bodies pressed tight against him on all sides, dragging him along with the crowd.  _Following after the Death Eaters._   _I just_ had _to chase after Gawain and Travers when the call came in._ Standing still was not a possibility; Rob tried to edge out of the central flow of people. He had to slam past bodies to force himself away from the mainstream of the out-of-control crowd.

Laughter roared around him as the female Muggle was flipped, her nightgown sliding down. Hazel eyes caught on the limp limbs, the motionless face.  _That's – not right. What did they_ do _to them?_

Muggles, in the grip of drunk – and some not-so-drunk – wizards.

_Not wizards. Death Eaters._ Flames crackled high in the night; Rob shuddered. Masks, hoods, and robes that he hadn't seen, for all the scares and imitators in the past twelve years, since the full rise of Voldemort.

Overhead, the littlest Muggle child was violently spinning, like a top. Rob fought the urge to cast a spell.  _Right. Try to stop the mob. If you even had the power to be more than an annoyance to so many, they'd turn on you._ It was a bad way to die.

The child's head flopped limply. He was only a little bigger than Rob's own daughter.  _I'm going to be sick._

Something tangled his feet; the only reason he didn't go down to be trampled was that flesh pressed too thickly around him to let him fall.  _Got to get –_

Someone grabbed his arm, yanked.

_Oh no oh God help –_  A flare of light illuminated the face cast in shadow; the rush of relief left him light-headed. "Gawain! Thank Merlin!"

_Boom!_

Rob looked up from his crouch, peering between arms raised against the sudden wave of  _heat-light-noise._  The Auror at his side rose as well, a small shield throwing sparks as debris bounced off it.

A tent was blasted out of the way; the tail end of the mob rushed through the gap created. He started for crumpled canvas and tangled ropes.  _My God, was anyone inside?_

Fingers gripped his shoulder, hauling him back. "Wait a minute, Rob." The voice raised to a deafening bellow, audible even over the mob's roaring laughter. "Lin, Hawlsey! Check the tent! I want Unit Seven at the front! We need to cut off the head of the mob – Four and Nine on the right, Five and Three on the left flank! Unit Two with me!  _GO!_ "

Grim-faced figures that he hadn't even noticed darted into the weirdly-lit night. Three men came forward – patches discreetly sewn on their robes showed two crossed wands over a silver shield.  _Unit Two, I guess –_

"We need to get the Muggles down," Gawain snapped, following the tail end of the mob. Rob jogged to keep up with the taller man's strides. "Suggestions?"

"Do it quickly," muttered the shortest, with a round face and the beginnings of a beard bristling his chin. He kept one hand on his wand, and there was little bit of blood smearing his forehead, shining darkly in the firelight.

" _Helpful_  suggestions." No patience in that voice.

"Can you contain the mob?" Rob needed to know.  _Wand, check. Spell?_  Nothing that would even slow them down, but that wouldn't stop him from trying.

"No," said a new voice. The reporter blinked, started.  _Black?_ He'd seen the man before the trial, but the difference now was astounding. "There's too many. We have to aim for the Death Eaters."

"And what about the Muggles?" Gawain snapped. Something nearby exploded; they all ducked. "I need answers – now!"

"The Muggles are probably already dead."

"You don't know that!" The third man – Rob looked closer, and suddenly recognized Ben Travers, the Auror he'd met earlier. The man looked awful, scratched and worn.

The level stare Black gave them made Rob wonder how anyone had thought the man could be insane. And in the same breath, he knew.  _Too intense._  "Take their fun away, and they'll know the jig is up. They'll scatter. So the only way's to get them and the Muggles at the same time."

"And how would you suggest we do that?" Gawain looked ready to kill someone.  _Death Eaters, I hope._

Pale eyes scanned the crowd for only a moment. "They're spread thin through the tents. Attack on the sides; it will funnel the Death Eaters toward the front and back of the mob."

"Get the Muggles first," added Travers. "We don't even need to get them down – just immobilize them so they don't fall."

"Good. Open channel, did everyone hear that?"

The voices were coming from the patch on their robes.

" _Aye!"_

_"Yes."_

_"On three, Gawain?"_

"One, two, -"

_"Immobilus!"_ Rob added his own voice to the many that shouted out from all sides of the mob. Limp bodies froze; for a moment, no one noticed that the Muggles had stopped twitching to the Death Eaters' commands.

Then hell shattered its gates, and came for them.

Rob stumbled back at the violent roar of anger sweeping out from the drunken mass.  _Oh God oh God spell I need a spell –_

"Stay with me!" A steel vise clamped on his arm. Gawain raised his wand.  _"Incarcerus!"_ Ropes dragged one figure to the ground - black robes struggled a moment, before being levitated out of the way of trampling feet.

Attacking one-on-one, half the culprits would be  _gone_  by the time they got through the mob!  _Why doesn't he just_  – another figure slipped, screaming, to be smashed underfoot. Rob didn't hear the incantation, but the man was pulled upright by a jolt of orange light.  _Confine them, and they'll crush each other to death._

_Help them!_ Spell – he needed a spell!  _Oh!_ Death Eaters, though, were too much for him to handle. Rob targeted a particularly raucous woman, howling with laughter and wildly thrusting her wand in the air.  _"Petrificus Totalus!"_

" _Liberacorpus!"_  The four Muggles began to drift toward Travers; on Gawain's other side, bursts of power flashed out toward Death Eaters, dragging black-robed figures from the massive crush.

A jet of green light flew their way; grass pressed muddily against his cheek. Rob risked a look up, to see the three others had hit the ground as well.

" _Aurors!"_

Every muscle seized; adrenaline pounded.  _Oh, we're in for it now –_

Suddenly everyone was scattering; a wave of figures rushing toward them and they  _weren't going to stop_  –

_"Protego-ankh!"_

Light blazed; someone swore. Foully.

_What the –_

Blinking spots from his vision, Rob stared at the sheen of white-gold light that had sprung into being before them.  _A shield?_  He'd heard the charm, but –

A wild-eyed wizard slipped past. Then another, and another streamed by; as if the group huddled within a dome of shining magic just  _wasn't there_.

The same voice that had raised the shield hissed another spell.  _"Aencessi."_

Nothing happened. Rob took a deep breath, eyes adjusting as the shield faded to invisibility and bodies still rushed around them on all sides. He could see the extent of the shield, if he looked for the odd glittering of light – encompassing three Aurors, a reporter, and four unconscious Muggles. They were completely enveloped in the protective bubble.

"Cast," came the order.

_But – that's a shield, you can't cast_ through _a shield –_

Gawain aimed.  _"Cunctatus!"_  The movement of those fleeing behind them slowed dramatically.

_Okay then._  Breath.  _"Petrificus Totalis!"_ Another look, to see more figures slipping away from the roiling mass of people.  _"Petrificus Totalis! Petrificus Totalis!"_  Rob didn't give a damn about originality.  _If it's dumb and it works – keep it simple!_

Travers hissed,  _"Arcero!"_  Purple strands flew from the tip of fourteen inches of maple, forming a net that spun lazily through the sky. And fell, dragging down eight figures trying to sneak around one of the few tents still standing.

The sweeping flow of people had fallen to a trickle, and the explosions had stopped some time ago. For the first time since he had left the Irish Quidditch Team's tent, Rob could breathe. He stood from his crouch, smoke tearing his vision.  _Is it . . . over?_

Blur of motion, toward –

"Hold your spells!" Gawain lowered his wand; only then did Rob see the patches marking out otherwise innocuous robes.  _Aurors._  "Report."

"We have no casualties, sir," came the woman's precise words. "Units Four and Five went to the front, Nine and Three came to the back after the flanks executed the pincer and cut the mob in half. No numbers yet on civilian casualties or those apprehended."

_It's over._  Knees trembled, his only warning before they gave and his butt hit dirt.  _Cold._  Rob couldn't stop shivering.

"What about the Muggles?" Gawain was over by Travers, now, checking the family that had been the focus of the riot.  _God, I hope they're alright –_

"They're dead."

His mind – froze.

"And it looks like they've been that way for awhile."

_Dead – for awhile?_  His stomach heaved. Rob only just turned away before he was bringing back up everything he'd eaten that day, struggling to be quiet.  _Oh, God. Playing with corpses –_  he couldn't get the sight of the youngest one out of his mind.  _Just a baby –_

Warm hands, soothing on his back. Rob shuddered, mustering up the energy to spit. Someone held a cup of water to his lips; he looked up into a woman's concerned face. "Thank you."

"First riot?" The woman gave him an encouraging smile. He couldn't see the Muggles beyond her, and knew that she'd moved there on purpose.  _Thank you._

Rob nodded, glancing up. Blinked, as sparkles appeared behind the woman's head, and felt hazel eyes widen as she shifted.

The Dark Mark.

"Harry," breathed a quiet voice at the very edge of his hearing. The same one which had pulled up that strange shield – Rob looked. Sirius Black strode to Gawain's side, every movement full of purpose. "Robard. I have to -"

The Head of Aurors nodded brusquely. "Go."

Air rushed into the empty space where the man had stood with a  _puff._

Travers gave a hard look to Head of the Aurors. "Gawain?"

"The boy's here – and so are Death Eaters. Tell me he's not a target, and you'd be lying."

The body of the Muggle toddler was proof the Death Eaters would stop at nothing tonight.  _The Boy Who Lived . . . crazed as they were tonight, they_ would _attack him if they found him._  And miracle or not, he was just a kid.

"Anne."

The woman before him half-turned. "Gawain?"

"I need some numbers."  _Casualties, captured._ Rob would have those numbers right after Gawain did. Shudders fought free of muscles to shake the world around him.

"I'm on it."

Rob was left huddled on the ground, with no place for his eyes to go but to the bodies of the man, woman, and two children. Terrified faces. No blood.  _The Killing Curse._  Bile was swallowed back; hazel eyes slipped shut. Sound went away.

_God._

* * *

****_(Ginny)_ ** **

* * *

A little kid was crying. "Mommeee! Mommy, where are you!"

"Oof!" Fred hit into her, then shoved back at the person who'd knocked into him.

"This way." The glow of Professor Lupin's wand showed that there were few people actually around them, though they could hear others calling frantically through the trees.  _It's cold._  Ginny shuddered in her jacket, gripping her brothers' hands tightly.  _I want to go home -_

"Ahhh!"

She couldn't hold back a scream at the shout, slamming into Fred. George hit her, and they all staggered forward but somehow didn't fall. Ginny breathed around her heart, which was slamming against the back of her throat.

"What happened?" Hermione sounded worried.

"Tripped over a tree root." Ron was pulling himself up off the ground, Professor Lupin scanning the small clearing they were in with care. They'd moved off the small path that was crowded with people.

"Well, with feet that size, hard not to," came a drawling voice from behind them.

"Draco," Professor Lupin cut off whatever Ron was about to say.  _Good thing too, because Mum would wash his mouth out._  She could tell from the look on his face Ron didn't care. The Professor's eyes narrowed. "Are you alone?"

A shrug was his answer. "More or less, Professor."

Ginny blinked.  _Respect?_  From  _Malfoy?_  That was . . . weird.

"You might want to move along," Malfoy said coldly. "You don't want  _her_  spotted." He nodded at Hermione.

_Ka-Boom!_

The twins had arms around her; Ginny felt her heart slide back down to where it was supposed to be. The blast was followed by a flash of green light from the campsite, lighting up the trees around them.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione asked defiantly.  _I really want to go home._ Ginny tried to peer around Fred, but George wouldn't let go of her arm.

"Draco?" Professor Lupin's voice was so  _calm._

"They're after  _Muggles,_  and they're moving this way." She saw him glance pointedly at Hermione. Fred and George bristled.

_He really is nasty. Ron was right!_

"Hermione's a witch," Harry snarled.

The blond boy looked almost relaxed, leaning against a tree across the clearing.  _How can he even be like that? He's awful._ "Have it your way, Potter. But if you think they can't spot a Muggle-born, stay where you are."

Ron looked as if he was only just keeping a hold on his tongue.

_Why aren't Fred and George –_  she looked up, and had her answer. The twins weren't paying any attention to what was going on  _inside_  the clearing; they were focused on the people running back and forth through the trees, and muttering quietly to one another.  _What are they –_

"Professor Lupin," they said at once. She blinked at the eerie echo.

"Yes?"

Ginny was deposited with Hermione as the twins moved to the center of the clearing, muttering lowly to Professor Lupin. The bang that came from beyond the trees then was the loudest of anything they had heard; Ginny clapped hands to her head.  _I just want to go home!_  Fred and George were her brothers, but she wished Bill or Charlie, or even Percy, was there too.

Over the ringing in her ears, she could hear screams coming from the forest around them.

"Scare easily," Malfoy muttered in disgust. The boy's whole body was pointed and thin, and Ginny thought he was just as mean as her brothers had said.  _She_  was scared – there was a  _mob_  out there! Blue eyes sneered over them all. "I suppose your daddy told you all to hide. What's he up to – out saving the Muggles?"

"Where're  _your_  parents?" Harry snapped. "Out there wearing masks, are they?"

_They're Death Eaters?_  But Mr. Malfoy was a  _School Governor._  That couldn't possibly be!  _Could it?_

"If they were, I wouldn't be likely to tell you, would I, Potter?"  _He looks like he doesn't care about anything – not that his parents are Death Eaters, not about the mob –_

"Quiet." Professor Lupin didn't raise his voice, but Ginny shivered to hear it. There was something fierce – almost – wild in the word; and he was angry. "I want you all to gather in the center of the clearing. You too, Draco."

Slinking in the shadows, the boy paused. "Professor -"

" _Now._ "

They went.

Clumped together, Ginny felt a hand slip into hers. Hermione smiled encouragingly.

"I'll bet you anything his dad  _is_  one of that masked lot!" Ron whispered hotly.

_He can hear you, Ron. Be quiet!_  A covert glance showed Malfoy gripping his wand. Apple wood trembled under her own fingers.

"Well, with any luck, the Ministry will catch them!" Hermione said fervently. Something shrieked outside the clearing. But they were all inside, and maybe safe – except –

_What are they doing?_

Fred touched the tip of his wand to George's.  _"Abscondemus et divertus vidus."_  Then, they touched their wands to the ground, and began to draw a large circle.

"What is that?"

Hermione was staring thoughtfully. "Looks like a boundary for a large-scale casting. Especially because the spell was a chanted phrase, and not a single word -"

"Right then," Fred whispered, dusting off his hands as George stood straight. "We should be good -"

"- for now. But it doesn't block sound, so -"

"- keep quiet."

_What is it?_  But no one was talking, so she guessed she'd have to wait to find out. But they weren't very deep in the forest, which she supposed was a good thing.  _If we'd gotten lost – separated –_

Luckily, no one was headed toward them. In fact, everyone seemed to be running by and around the clearing without stopping at all.  _That's . . . weird._  "What did you do?"

"Shhh, Ginny." George's hand was hovering over her mouth.

"But -" It descended, flesh absorbing the words.

Something rustled, very close.  _Bushes!_  A sudden thought slammed her heart into overdrive.  _We didn't douse our lights! They can see us!_

Again, movement stirred the underbrush. Leaves slipped to the grass.  _"Madame Maxime?"_  Female, a bit older than she was. " _Est-ce que quelqu'un est là?"_  The curvy form passed within inches of the barrier, not seeing it at all.  _What happens if someone crosses it?_  It wasn't impenetrable . . . The noise of a person pushing through the forest drifted away.  _It's awfully quiet._  Even the mob seemed to have died down.

"Beauxbatons," Hermione muttered.

Ron snorted. "Bless you."

"Sorry?" whispered Harry.

"She must go to Beauxbatons. You know . . . Beauxbatons Academy of Magic . . . I read about it in -"

"Shut  _up,_  Granger!" Malfoy's eyes looked like they never stopped moving, back and forth through the clearing. Ginny barely heard the words, but the venom hissed out at all of them, slapping her in the face.

"You watch your mouth!" Ron spat.

"Unless you want to bring them right to us, you'll shut up too, Weasley," Malfoy snarled back, still quiet. "What makes you think that's all of them?"  _He's right._  Fear thrilled in every vein.

"You -"

Harry's hand clamped on her brother's arm; a sharp look had Ron swallowing his words in thwarted, furious silence.

The mob was still out there; noises of shouts and spells were faint but present. Figures moved beyond the trees – and a few were still suspended, blocked partially from sight by trunks.

"Those poor Muggles. What if they can't get them down?" Ginny shivered, looking to her brothers.

"They will," Fred muttered quietly.

"They'll find a way," George nodded. "And we'll hear every detail from Percy until we're sick of it!"

_"Immobilus!"_ It was far off, brought to them by many voices shouting at once. Suddenly the mob was roiling, moving, exploding with magic and motion and noise.  _Where are the Muggles? I can't see -_

But spells were ricocheting back and forth, the battle one of flashing lights and bangs that carried deep into the wood.

"What's going on?"

"Move over!"

"I can't see -"

Dark robes scattered in every direction. Her voice was almost a scream. "They're coming this way!"

"Quiet, now!" Professor Lupin's face was tight with concentration; he was turning his head, this way and that, as if hearing something. Ginny strained in the silence.  _What? What is it –_  but her heartbeat was so loud, slamming in her ears.

And then, without warning, the silence was rent by a voice unlike any they had heard in the wood; and it uttered, not a panicked shout, but what sounded like a spell.

" _MORSMORDRE!"_

* * *

****_(Sirius)_ ** **

* * *

_He's here._

What other reason could there be? The riot had caused enough chaos to scatter the defending forces, stretching them thin. If something were to happen now, the Aurors would be worse than ineffective – they'd be  _useless._

And there was only one real reason for Voldemort to attack during the Cup.

_Harry._

Branches tangled hair and robes, reaching for him. He'd Apparated deep into the wood, hoping that he would find Remus and Harry while searching for the source of the Dark Mark.  _Instead, I've gotten a group of Veela and their admirers, one whimpering house-elf, and dozens of panicked parents._ At least the latter were banding together, searching methodically through the forest for their children and lost family members.

_Or as methodically as they can, in the dark._

His own wand was unlit – why, Sirius couldn't say. Aspen gleamed whitely nonetheless, and Azkaban instincts were jangling insistently.  _Danger. Close._

_I know._  Every nerve was waiting, with calm readiness that had lasted years on the island prison. A few minutes, hours even, was less than nothing.

Quiet was near impossible, pushing through the underbrush. But the spell had come from this direction; and it was leading him closer to the outermost edges of the forest.

_Snap._

Sirius slowed every muscle to absolute stillness. Air sped silently through his lungs; wand at the ready, he crept toward the noise.

"My Lord. We should leave."

_I know that voice._  Sirius frowned.  _I know I know that voice . . ._  Which he shouldn't. Thirteen years locked away from the world, frozen in moments of the past while the outside world turned on. People he had known had moved on, to other lives or even death. The world had changed.

"Soon, my faithful servant, soon." A snake's hiss, overlying screams of the damned.  _Voldemort._

And no more than three meters away.

Something was moving.  _Behind –_

Bare whisper, but the eyes were steady. "Sirius."

He lowered his wand from Remus' heart, thanking Merlin for all the training that taught him  _never_  to cast until he was sure of his target.  _He's alone._  "Harry?"

The wolf peered from his friend's eyes for just an instant, protective and fierce. Remus' head jerked back, the direction he'd come from.  _He'd never leave Harry alone. He's with Ron and Hermione, at least._

But Death Eaters had escaped the mob –  _No. Put it aside._  He couldn't think of that now. The biggest threat was just around the other side of the bark pressed into his back. Sirius risked two words, knowing the wolf's ears would hear even if his couldn't. "Voldemort. Here."

Remus' eyes narrowed. A sound very like a soft growl vibrated the air between them.

"My Lord?" The voice again, pricking at his memory.

"Yes."

_Not a request. A confirmation?_  Realization blasted all thought away; Sirius held up a finger.  _One, two –_

One figure, standing short and stout in black robes before the second. The taller man had his back to them, white fingers caressing thirteen inches of yew.

_"Caroflagro!"_ Remus snapped. The smaller figure screamed; Voldemort turned.

_"Osbatuo!"_  The jet of light snapped from the white aspen tip – slamming through empty space to rip thick chunks of bark from a fat trunk.  _Son of a –_  The tall figure was nowhere to be seen.  _"Scrutor!"_

Nothing.  _He Disapparated. Voldemort's gone._

The man in black robes had stopped screaming now, panting in pain against the sparse grass. The coast was clear. Sirius darted forward to kick the dropped wand out of reach. Remus never left his side.

"Who are you?" The wolf was in every word, growling through Remus' voice.

A trembling hand groped at the ground; agonized groans formed a continuous undercurrent of tortured sound. The hand slid over dirt, cloth –

_Cloth!_ "No!"

Dirt flew in their faces. Patched fabric swept violently over the ground, shielding the wizard from sight.  _An Invisibility Cloak!_  No target - they couldn't cast, but the Death Eater's wand was still on the ground, leveling the field.  _Where is he!_

To their right, something forced through the brush, headed away from them at a dead run.  _He's headed toward the campsites!_

Sirius pelted after Remus, the wolf hard on the Death Eater's trail. They got maybe two steps.

_Pop! Poppoppoppop!_

He didn't register faces, only twenty wands he knew surrounded them on every side.  _Moony!_ One shoulder slammed into flesh and let gravity own them both. "DOWN!"

_"STUPEFY!"_

The air glowed red; bolts of spell-light smashed across the clearing, bouncing off tree trunks and rebounding into darkness – instinct roared to life.  _"Protego-ankh!"_

"Stop!" yelled a voice he recognized.  _Arthur._  "STOP! That's an Auror!"

He heard Remus gasping beside him. No way in hell was he lowering that shield, until –

Silence.

Sirius looked up carefully through the blazing sheen of power. Wands were lowering on every side. Dirt clung as he rolled over.  _"Finite Incantatem."_  Arthur Weasley was striding towards them, looking horrified.

Sirius gained his feet.  _Department heads, Ministry members – and not one Auror in the entire bunch. What have they been doing?_  On second thought, he didn't want to know.

"Sirius . . . Remus. Are you all right?" Arthur was ashen under red hair and freckles. Pale eyes searched, but there were no more redheads in the group.  _I wonder where the older Weasleys have gotten to._

"Thank you, Arthur," Remus answered.

"Out of the way, Arthur."

Sirius stared, surprised.  _His voice . . ._ The two weren't the same, but they were very, very close.  _Bartemius Crouch._  The man's face was taut with anger, the circle of wizards closing in.

_Crouch._  One of the men who had condemned him to Azkaban without a trial.

"Which of you did it?" Crouch snapped, sharp eyes darting between them. "Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?"

_I'll kill him._  "Neither." How was his voice so calm?

"It wasn't us," Remus added.  _Moony. Reasonable, responsible as ever._ Despite the crowd of witches and wizards ready to curse anyone at the slightest hint of a threat. "If you would look -"

Crouch's eyes popped; the wand at his heart had Sirius slowly, slowly, lifting his own. "Do not lie, sir! You have been discovered at the scene of the crime!"

"Barty," a witch in a long woolen dressing gown whispered. "Think who you're talking to, Barty – that's Sirius Black -"

"I know exactly who I'm talking to!" Crouch shouted.

Sirius could hear himself breathe, and didn't blink.  _If I was what he thinks I am, I would have hexed him five times over by now._  Appealing as the idea was, he wouldn't.  _But I want to._  So he spoke to the others, who had lowered their wands, and looked past the threat at his throat. "I arrived here a few minutes ago, from that direction." The majority of wizards watched where he pointed. "I heard two voices speaking, and then Remus arrived. We attacked – and one of the figures Disapparated immediately. The second used an Invisibility Cloak, and ran off that way."

"You didn't give chase?" Crouch was breathing fast. Every wizard in the group was on alert again.

"We were," Sirius retorted coolly. Nudged discarded peachwood with a booted toe. "That was when you arrived. The suspect left this wand, which he probably used to cast the Mark."

"Oh, used this wand, did they?" said Crouch, advancing on him. "Said an incantation, I suppose? You seem very well informed on how the Mark is summoned -"

Voices protested.

"Just hold on one minute -"

"Barty -"

"He's an  _Auror_ ," snapped Remus.

_That is it!_ His temper was spiraling away from any grasp he might have retained on it thus far.  _"Quiet,"_  he snapped, sparing only Remus from his ire. "I'm an Auror. Yes, I know how the Mark is summoned – it's part of training."  _Along with the Unforgivables. And if I didn't know it before Azkaban, I'll never forget it now._  Wandless, imprisoned Wizarding criminals had screamed nightmares and spells in futile rages that echoed down stone corridors . . .

"He went that way," Remus moved, one arm indicating a trail of broken branches and flattened brush. A few young, green leaves spotted the forest floor, out of place in summer.

"We're too late," said the witch in the woolen dressing gown, shaking her head. "They'll have run off."

"I don't think so." Amos Diggory's scrubby brown beard waggled as he rubbed his jaw. "Our stunners went right through those trees. . . There's a chance we got them. . . ."

"Amos, be careful!" Arthur's voice was joined by at least three others; Sirius pushed Crouch's wand aside and moved to follow.

"Wait – you -"

"I'm an Auror," Sirius snapped. "I'm going to do my job."  _Harry._  The only thing that kept him from rushing to find his godson was the knowledge that the Death Eater wasn't running in the direction Remus had approached him from.  _I just hope Moony didn't circle around -_

Diggory stepped on something, stumbled, and swore.  _"Lumos."_  Greenish skin and a tea towel gleamed under wandlight; the Ministry official shouted excitedly. "Yes! We got them! There's someone here! Unconscious! It's – but – blimey . . ."

_It's a house-elf._  Skin paled above the ragged beard; Sirius sucked in a breath at the shocked written in Diggory's eyes.  _He knows whose house-elf it is. And from the look on his face, this isn't going to be good._

The tromping of their feet had spread the fugitive's trail wider through the wood.  _So much for keeping the scene uncontaminated._

Crouch's voice was shrill with disbelief. "You've got someone? Who? Who is it?"

Heavier, made a little awkward by his burden, Diggory lifted the house-elf and crunched through twigs and leaves back to the clearing. Light faded with him.

_"Lumos."_  Sirius lifted the wand high, letting illumination fall over the entire clearing. It wasn't large.  _Something's not right._  It had been a long time since he'd seen an Invisibility Cloak used; but the quirks of it, the way it made space  _empty_ , weren't easily forgotten.  _Where's the trail? It stops here. Which means -_

"- embarrassing, really," Diggory's voice filtered back. Sirius only caught a few words, but it explained Crouch's sudden, strained appearance before him.  _Barty Crouch's house-elf?_  A thought slithered through the back of his mind, just barely out of reach.

"Go back and secure the scene," Crouch mumbled through stiff lips.

A black brow hiked.  _No wand. The suspect didn't Apparate away. Either he was hit, he's hiding, or he slowed to make the trail harder to follow._  Not likely, given the spell Remus had hit him with was particularly nasty. And pain usually banished reason and common sense more effectively than any charm.

"Go!"

_Not a chance._  "After you." Sirius made an attempt at manners, knowing Gawain Robard would give him hell if he complicated the Head of the Aurors' life by starting an incident with the Department Head for International Magical Cooperation. The toothbrush moustache quivered; Crouch sputtered for words.

" _Constrixi."_  The circle of magic dropped off his wand, becoming a coin-like shimmer in the dirt. A twist of will expanded it, locking the scene in a bubble that glinted orange, throwing back flecks of starlight in neon. Brown eyes glared, spitting contempt at him. But the entire area was blocked off – Crouch couldn't go forward.

_Pop!_

"The Dark Mark!"

_Oh, no, don't tell me. . ._  He'd heard that voice at the match, booming out into the stadium.  _Ludo Bagman._  Rejoining the others, Sirius cast a question at Remus; Moony shrugged.

Bagman was still going on. "- get them? What's going on? Where have you been, Barty? Why weren't you at the match? Your elf was saving you a seat too – gulping gargoyles! What happened to  _her_?"

Crouch was almost trembling with fury. "I've been busy, Ludo." If Crouch's lips were moving, Sirius couldn't see it. The words dropped jerkily into the clearing. "And my elf has been stunned."

"Stunned? By you lot, you mean? But why -" Some kind of comprehension broke over Bagman's round, shiny face. His glance from the Dark Mark to Winky to Crouch gave him away.  _He thinks the house-elf did it._ The elf's presence in the wood was reason enough to question both the house-elf and Crouch later, away from curious ears.

He wasn't going to let this get out of hand.  _"Prior Incantato."_  Peachwood floated up, a smoke issuing from the tip in the shape of a giant skull.  _A spell's ghost._

"Well, that's the wand," Arthur muttered.

Sirius didn't lift the spell, listening as the next incantation shivered to their ears. A gray figure in Muggle clothes, male, short, and round, appeared. Dread slammed a fist into his stomach.  _"Avada-"_

_"Finite!"_

Even the specter of _that_  spell could kill.

"Son of a bitch." A minor Ministry official, carefully feeling a black eye he'd probably gathered at one of the riots. "Is that -"

_The Roberts family._  Sirius tapped the patch on his robes twice. "The Death Eater's wand? Yes."  _Murder weapon._ And they could take it as evidence, identifying the witch or wizard it belonged to. He let peachwood drop again to its original place on the forest floor. "Out of the clearing, everyone."

Scene secured, he pulled the other Marauder aside. Arthur, showing signs of wear, followed.  _No more wasted time._  Moony pulled up at the hand Sirius laid on his arm. "Remus, where's Harry?"

* * *

****_(Harry)_ ** **

* * *

"Oh shut up, you bloody -"

"Shh!" Harry was more than happy to interrupt the insults being snarled back and forth between Ron and Malfoy.  _Ever since Remus left._ Some of the things Malfoy said had gotten him angry enough to cast, but Hermione had pulled him away, though she'd had less luck with Ron.  _She's right. It's really not worth it – especially if someone's looking for us._

From the look on Remus' face before he'd gone searching for the caster of the skull riding the sky, that  _someone_  had the worst of intentions.  _Voldemort._  He still hadn't told Hermione, or the Weasleys. Sirius had promised they would right after the Cup.  _But that was before -_

"What is it?" Hermione leant forward.

Ginny's face had whitened, with the pinched, frightened look that was still stamped on Harry's memory from the Chamber of Secrets.

"Someone's coming." Holly was firm in his hand; Fred and George were keeping watch on the other side of the tiny space. Harry's entire body thrummed with adrenaline at the approaching rustle of leaves. The figure that appeared between the trunks stared right past them, pale eyes searching what appeared to be an empty clearing. "Sirius!"

Dark hair turned, seeking his voice. Remus emerged next, followed by a figure topped with red hair.

"Dad!" Ginny cried shrilly. "Fred, George, take it down!" And she ran over the line scratched through the dirt, to be caught by a surprised Mr. Weasley.

The twins were muttering to themselves; for a moment, the entire clearing seemed to . . . to  _blink_. Then pale eyes locked with his. "Harry. Are you all right?"

Harry jumped forward, grinning, and found himself caught in a quick, unexpected hug. "Yeah. Nothing happened – we got away from the mob. Everything looked okay, until that went up." Sirius' eyes followed his pointing finger toward the gruesomely grinning emerald skull.

"You're all alright? Let's get back to the tent," Mr. Weasley called.

"Sirius? What is that?"

The quick squeeze to his shoulder was comforting. "Wait just a little bit, Harry. Arthur's right. Let's get back to the tent. I'll explain then." Sirius had never broken a promise to him.  _Okay._  Harry nodded.

"Clever spell," Remus commented to Fred and George. "You came up with it?"

"Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," the twins chorused.  _Mrs. Weasley might not kill them for it._  Harry grinned a little. Fred and George would probably milk it for all it was worth, and then some.

"Hey – where'd Malfoy go?" Hermione frowned, sidling over to Remus' side.

"He was just over by that tree a minute ago," Ron shrugged. "Good riddance, I say."

"Well, we can't leave without him," Remus declared.

Harry blinked.  _You're kidding._  But Sirius was nodding. "Arthur, stay here for a moment. He can't have gotten far."

"Bugger," George muttered as the two older men moved through the trees.

"Thought we were rid of the little pestilence," Fred agreed.

It took a few minutes before Sirius and Remus returned, with the mutinous-looking blond boy in tow.  _I wonder what they said to make him come with us._  Harry fell into step with Sirius, who was looking grimmer by the minute.  _I bet he was going to look for his parents. His father's a Death Eater. And he did say there were probably Death Eaters running around the woods. The campsite's this way, not the way he was going._

But when they reached the edge of the wood, their progress was impeded A large crowd of frightened-looking witches and wizards was congregated there, and when they saw Mr. Weasley and Sirius coming toward them, many of them surged forward.

"What's going on in there?"

"Who conjured it?

"Arthur – it's not –  _Him?_ "

Mr. Weasley huffed impatiently, about to speak.

"I'm sorry, we can't talk about an ongoing investigation," Sirius cut in smoothly, raising his voice to carry. "Unless you're looking for someone, the wood is off-limits. The suspects have been apprehended; there's nothing you need to worry about. Please go back to your tents."

"Excuse us, please," Mr. Weasley added, starting to push past the people and determinedly pulling Ginny with him. "I want to get to bed."

A woman in a neon magenta and green striped dressing gown suddenly appeared in front of them. A peacock feather-quill scribbled furiously at parchment as she beamed a smile on them that made Harry think of Gilderoy Lockhart. "Rita Skeeter,  _Daily Prophet._  What can you tell me about the Dark Mark floating over the wood? And the riot – what happened to those Muggles?"

"No comment," Sirius said firmly. The fingers on his shoulder kept Harry firmly on his godfather's other side, blocking him from the reporter.

"But surely you can't deny the evidence of our own eyes," the woman protested. "That  _is_  the Dark Mark. What -"

"If you wish to be appraised of the official report of events, I suggest you speak to Gawain Robard, Head of the Aurors, or Head of the DMLE," Sirius suggested. They never slowed their pace, but the woman kept irritatingly close. "I'm not permitted to speak about an ongoing investigation. Now if you'll excuse us."

"But what about -"

"Black! There you are!" A short, thick Asian woman with the Aurors' patch on her robes pushed Skeeter roughly aside. "Gawain -"

"Anne Lin," the reporter recovered herself, turning avid, predatory eyes on the newcomer. Harry stared. "Perhaps you can tell me -"

"Shove off," the woman advised pointedly. "I'm not as polite as Black."

His godfather snorted.

Poisonously colored stripes drew themselves up indignantly. "The people have the right to know -"

The shorter woman blew a raspberry at Skeeter.

"Let's go," Sirius murmured lowly. Harry glanced up in time to see him mouth  _Thanks_  to the short Auror physically stalling Skeeter; she slipped them a wink in reply.

They crossed the path the riot had taken, and the swathe of destruction was unexpected. Fires still smoked and smoldered, though most people seemed to have disappeared. A few witches and wizards could be seen poking through the crumpled remains of tents that had been blasted out of the Death Eaters' way, but Harry shivered to see how deserted it was. "Where is everyone?"

Sirius sighed. "The Ministry members are going to have to run relief efforts with a few Aurors to supervise. The rest of the Aurors are tied up dealing with the Death Eaters we caught." His voice was low, but as they wove through the tents everyone was listening.

"Don't you have to help?"

"Yes," Sirius admitted. "But I'm not going anywhere until I make sure you're taken care of." The arm around his shoulders squeezed reassuringly.

Heat crawled up his face.  _I'm glad it's dark out._  It was almost three in the morning, after all. But it was still a good feeling. He was saved from replying by their arrival at a tent made of rich, tasteful silks.

"This is it."

Harry'd completely forgotten about Malfoy.  _Figures that his tent would be one of the ones the Death Eaters didn't touch._  Indeed, it looked like the mob had passed right by and left it alone.

"Go stand with Remus, Harry," Sirius gave him a little push toward the back of the group. "Just while I take care of this."

_Take care of what? He's at his tent, let's go._  But Harry bit his tongue, and nodded. "Okay." But he ignored the Weasleys' talking quietly behind him, Fred and George muttering as Mr. Weasley murmured soothingly to Ginny. Ron peered over his shoulder. "What's up?"

"Dunno," Harry shrugged.

Hermione was watching just as intently.

Sirius pulled a tassel hanging down by the seam where two draped curtains of canvas touched. Deep within, something  _gong_ ed.

The woman who emerged, every hair in place, was the same blonde, horse-faced woman who had walked at Lucius Malfoy's side in the Top Box. But she didn't even look at her son, who had taken up a position at Sirius' side and a step behind him.

"Sirius." Harry's jaw dropped.  _She knows him? How -_

His godfather's tone was just as distant and formally polite. "Narcissa."

"The hour is late, cousin." Anyone who hadn't been staring was now.  _Cousin?_

"I regret to have disturbed you." Sirius inclined his head momentarily. "I happened upon the Malfoy heir, displaced and unprotected, and bethought myself to return him to you."  _Huh? Why are they talking like that?_

"My thanks." The smile on Mrs. Malfoy's face seemed forced. "A debt of honor is owed to your house."

Sirius didn't seem to acknowledge her. "I discharge my ward to his mother's care."

At that, Malfoy moved forward to stand between them. And then, the weirdest thing Harry had seen all night – Draco  _bowed,_ short and stiffly, to Sirius, before turning to go back into the tent.

"Duty demands my presence elsewhere, cousin," Sirius continued.  _It's like they didn't even see him._

"Good eve, cousin." With a graceful nod, Narcissa Malfoy closed the tent.

"What was that?" Harry blurted, as soon as his godfather turned around.

"Politics," was the answer. "And tradition," Sirius sighed. "But mostly politics."

"You're related to  _Malfoy?_ " Ron was disgusted.

Sirius laughed, pointing them away from the Malfoys' tent and back through the campsites.

"So's Harry," Remus interjected mildly, steering them around another fire and quenching it as he passed.

" _What?"_  He couldn't have heard that right.  _I'm what?!_

"Relax," Sirius grinned. "It's distant enough to be almost nonexistent. You're slightly closer to my side of the family tree, but it's only a vague connection."

"But  _I'm_  related to  _Malfoy_?"

"Eww." Ginny's nose wrinkled.

"All the pureblood families are interrelated." Sirius pointed left; Harry could see the tip of a familiar tent between the pointed sweeps of two others. "If you're only going to let your sons and daughters marry purebloods, your choices are very limited; there are hardly any of us left. Your mum," he glanced at Ron and the twins, smiling at Ginny, "is my cousin by marriage and Arthur's something like my second cousin once removed."

Hermione got it first. "So Ron's related to Malfoy too?"

"No way!"

"I'm afraid so." Remus had a Marauder's hidden grin on. Harry'd gotten familiar with that cat-ate-the-canary look over the summer, watching his godfather and Remus prank each other, and then him.  _Oh, geez._

Ron was so dismayed that he tripped on a tent-peg and almost took a nosedive into the dirt.

Charlie's head was poking out of the boys' tent. "Dad, what's going on?" he called through the dark. Worry seeped into every word. "None of the kids are back yet -"

"We've got them here," said Mr. Weasley, bending down and entering the tent. The rest of the group followed, with Sirius bringing up the rear.

Bill was sitting at the small kitchen table, holding a bedsheet to his arm, which was bleeding profusely. Charlie had a large rip in his shirt, and Percy was sporting a bloody nose. Steaming cups of tea rested before each of them, and the kettle was on.

"Did you get them, Dad?" said Bill sharply as they all poured in. There weren't enough chairs to go round; Sirius leant against the counter at the open juncture between parlor and kitchen while the twins, Harry and Ron spilled to carpet that smelled of cat. "The person who conjured the Dark Mark?"

"No," Mr. Weasley sighed, slumping back against the last kitchen chair. "When we got there, Sirius and Remus were already there; we'd only just missed them."

"Good thing you did, too." Pale eyes locked with Harry's.  _Voldemort. He was there._  No other explanation for the gravity weighing his godfather's every move. Harry shivered.

"Look, can someone just explain what that skull thing was?" Ron asked impatiently, shifting against the couch-leg bracing his back. "It wasn't hurting anyone. . . Why's it such a big deal?"

"It's You-Know-Who's symbol, Ron," interjected Hermione before anyone else could respond. She was sitting up straight, in a battered and faded armchair, hair frizzed out from sleep and their run through the woods. "I read about it in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts."

"And it hasn't been seen in thirteen years." Mr. Weasley was tense, but it was the cold, shuttered look on Sirius's face that scared Harry. "There were some rumors that it had been cast - but that was never confirmed. Here, in front of everyone? Of course people panicked . . . it's almost like seeing You-Know-Who again."

"I don't get it." Ron's fingers twisted tightly together. "I mean . . . it's still only a shape in the sky. . . ."

"Ron," Remus said in a voice Harry recognized from the classroom, usually preceding the explanation that made everything click. "The Dark Lord and his followers sent the Dark Mark into the air whenever they killed."

"Just think." Sirius' voice was quiet. "Imagine arriving home to find that hanging in the sky over your house – and knowing what you'll see inside. The terror the Mark could inspire is only a shallow reflection of finding your worst fear come true."

"Well, it didn't help tonight, whoever conjured it." Bill dabbed the bedsheet at the cut. Fresh crimson oozed. "It scared the Death Eaters away the moment they saw it. All the ones that could Disapparated on the spot. The Aurors got a few, but even more got away."

Ginny's voice was small. Red hair and brown eyes were all that was visible over the curled ball she'd made herself in one corner of the tiny couch. "Death Eaters? What are Death Eaters?"

"What Voldemort's supporters call themselves," Sirius said levelly. Harry wondered if he even noticed the Weasleys' collective flinch. "A lot of them managed to keep out of Azkaban, and many of those were out cavorting tonight."

"What were the Death Eaters up to, levitating Muggles?" Harry wasn't sure he really wanted to know – the scene still made him sick and angry all at once. "What was the point?"

"The point?" said Mr. Weasley with a hollow laugh. "Harry, that's their idea of fun." He was about to continue when another voice broke in.

"Not tonight." Sirius pushed off the counter, moving to pace in the small space. The next few words were soft with regret. "The Roberts family is dead."

Charlie jerked with shock, swearing as hot tea slopped over the edge of his cup. Bill's head snapped up; Percy's mouth dropped open. Harry could hear small noises of surprise around him, but his gaze was on Sirius, and the glance his godfather exchanged with Remus.

"What – why would they -" Percy was grasping for reason.

Sirius' eyes rested behind Harry for a moment; the dark head shook slightly.  _Ginny._

"Sirius?" Mr. Weasley wasn't the only one who'd caught on that something more was being held back.

"Some of this is not suitable for young ears," his godfather responded.

"Hey!" Fred and George jerked upright.

"Well, after tonight. . ." Mr. Weasley sighed. "I'm sure it's not that bad. I mean, it's not like You-Know-Who's come back. . ."

Sirius didn't laugh. Didn't move, didn't say anything, his whole body perfectly still.

Mr. Weasley's face was an awful pasty color. "That's impossible." The whisper carried through the entire tent.

"So the Death Eaters weren't running scared." Harry's head jerked toward Bill, whose face was dark. Blood seeped into the sheet, staining cloth. Remus' wand hovered a moment over the cut; the professor murmured a quiet charm, and the flow of blood slowed.

"It's likely that seeing the Mark was a signal for retreat," Sirius nodded grimly. "Voldemort did what he set out to do."

"You-Know-Who . . . was here?" Charlie was the only other one with the gumption to speak. Harry looked around; Hermione's eyes were huge with fear, and Ginny was trembling. The twins looked graver than Harry'd ever seen them; Ron was sitting at his little sister's side, an arm around her shoulders.

"Yes. He Disapparated," was the cool answer.  _He's gone . . . but where?_  Harry tucked back a shiver.

"The Ministry  _knows_  this and nothing's being done?" Bill's outrage finally sparked a reaction from Percy, who drew himself up to argue.

"No."

"What do you mean?" his friend finally found his tongue. Ron's anger splashed over them. "You haven't  _told_ anyone that -"

"I know this system, Ron." His godfather was more patient than Harry'd thought he might be. "Without proof, no one will believe it. No one will  _want_  to believe that this isn't just some wizard trying to step into the shoes and reputation of the most terrifying wizard of our time."

"But – you  _saw_  him, you both did," Hermione pointed out, seemingly haven taken control of her emotions again. Harry blinked.  _Huh?_ "He must have been the one in the clearing. Surely, if you told them -"

"They would say the source is suspect, and refuse to listen," Remus said quietly.

"What do you mean?" Harry sat up a little more, frowning. "Why wouldn't they listen?"

He couldn't quite understand the look that the two older men shared. Remus scrubbed hands over his face roughly. "Werewolves are classified as Dark creatures," was his answer. "Nothing I could say would be taken as truth." Bill stiffened, and Percy's mouth dropped wider, but Harry, Ron and Hermione had known for some time, as had Mr. Weasley, apparently. A hiss behind him showed Fred thinking furiously, while George had an uncommonly thoughtful look on his face.  _Like right before they double-team the Chaser with the Quaffle and take out the Keeper as well._  Ginny seemed the least concerned.

"And I'm on thin ice where the Ministry's concerned," Sirius said quietly. "Yes, they made a mistake and were in the wrong when they sent me to prison. But there are quite a few people whispering that no one could have lasted long in Azkaban without losing their minds. They'd rather put me safely away in St. Mungo's, for 'my own good', than face up to the fact that they blundered."

Horror clutched Harry's stomach; fear had a stranglehold on his throat. "They couldn't do that. Could they?"  _Take him away? They wouldn't. They couldn't – they –_

"No." Sirius' voice was firm as he crouched in front of Harry. Heat rolled over his eyes, and he blinked, scrambling forward.  _They can't – I won't let them!_ He had  _family_  now, he had Sirius and Remus and the Pevensies, and they were going to take that away – Harry wrapped his arms around his godfather and held on tight.  _I won't let them._

"I'm sorry I scared you." Sirius' voice rumbled the chest under Harry's cheek, too low for anyone else to hear. "No, they would never be able to do that. I've passed every test they could think to shove on me, and most of it is just talk. The feeling  _is_ there, but if they ever tried to do anything about it . . ." Ribs lifted with the sigh. "I am the last survivor of the House of Black. We've been invisible long enough to be forgotten, but it's past time the Wizarding world remembers that the High Families still exist." Steel was more flexible than that voice. Arms came up around him, hugging him back, and refusing to let go.

"Sirius," Remus said lightly. "Please tell me you're not going to do something foolish."

"Moony." Harry risked a glance up, and one pale eye winked down at him. The voice, full of mock-hurt and devilish humor, continued. "Why would you ever think I would do something like that?"

"Well, there was the incident with the Fire Crabs in our fourth year, and then the time you got your hands on Muggle duct tape."

The shrug lifted Harry a little, but he just hung on tighter. "Isolated incidents," his godfather maintained.

Remus lifted a brow; Harry couldn't help his grin. "And I seem to remember one of Filch's cats as a massive, peanut-buttered glob -"

Snickers broke out, and he heard an exclamation from Fred that sounded like 'Brilliant!'  _Uh-oh . . ._

"That was an accident," Sirius protested, a bit weakly. He'd shifted so Harry could curl into him, both arms still wrapped tight over his back.

"-  _after_  we decided that as far as pranks went, that one was lacking the maturity and sophistication we had developed in our seventh year."

"Well." All attempts at innocence evaporated in front of the open laughter that last had inspired. "It was still funny. Especially when it wouldn't come off."

"Because you charmed it to be spell-resistant!" Remus threw his hands into the air. Harry was laughing outright now.

Percy was the one who dissolved the levity. "You-Know-Who is out there, and you're not going to do  _anything?_ " Nose long since healed, the third-oldest Weasley's fists were clenching spasmodically.

Sirius' head went up. "For the moment, there's nothing I can do. I hope the riot will make people's minds open to the idea that something else is going – especially since the Mark went up. But think about it, Percy – Voldemort has been back for almost three weeks now, and the world is not covered in Darkness. He's hiding."

"Why?"

"Your guess is as good as ours, Hermione," Mr. Weasley raised empty hands.

"Probably to consolidate his strength, gather his followers," Remus offered. "And the element of surprise is one he doesn't want to lose."

Harry shivered.  _How can he? Everyone who wasn't there – who didn't see – the whole Wizarding World thinks he's dead, and no one's going to believe this isn't just some faker trying to take his place. . ._

"Regardless, if he'd been going to reveal himself, tonight would have been almost ideal," Sirius mused. "Few Aurors, already stretched thin – and he didn't. Which means he's not ready, and probably won't be for some time."

"Listen," Mr. Weasley spoke into the silence that fell. "It's very late, and if your mother hears what's happened she'll be worried sick. We'll get a few more hours' sleep and try to get an early Portkey out of here."

By the time Harry got back to his bunk after watching Sirius leave to rejoin the Aurors, his head was buzzing. He should feel tired – by the time they'd finished talking it was nearly four in the morning and they were getting up again in only two hours.  _But I'm not._

Just a few days ago, he'd woken with his scar burning.  _Now, Voldemort's sign is in the sky for the second time since –_  Since the night his parents had been killed. He didn't know for sure, but he'd seen it in Sirius' eyes. Few people had heard of the Mark's appearance over the Forbidden Forest barely three weeks ago – the Aurors had kept it quiet as possible.

It all meant something bad, he was sure of it.  _What's going to happen next?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My rules for this magic and how it 'works' do not follow canon – I'm developing my own.
> 
> Protego-ankh = protego, shield spell (directly from the Latin, meaning "I protect"), plus ankh (directly from Ancient Egyptian, meaning "life") which strengthens the spell beyond its normal ability to deflect minor curses / jinxes.
> 
> Aencessi = Mutilated Latin. To make permeable, from one side only.
> 
> Cunctatus = directly from Latin, meaning 'having been delayed', or 'hesitate'. Slows movement of a target. Can be directed at an individual, or blanketed over an area.
> 
> Arcero – Mutilated Latin, meaning "to shut in, or enclose" (from arceo, arcere, arcui). Casts a glowing net of sticky purple strands over an area. Generally resistant to removal by any but the caster, though holes can be blown in it for prey to escape, and it is generally not useful against magical creatures. Wizards, however, are another story . . .
> 
> Abscondemus et divertus videtus – mutilated Latin: "we hide from sight and divert the viewer"; requires not only an illusion but mental suggestion. (Which is the reason for the length of the chanting incantation). The more complex magic becomes, the more complex the wording must become unless you use 'wandlessly'. Dual magics must have incantations because you cannot match the exact intent behind multiple users without words; and the more complex the intent, the more precisely you need to verbally pin it down.
> 
> Caroflagro – Mutilated Latin; caro "flesh" plus conflagro, "to be consumed by fire". Causes the target's flesh to be incinerated (no flames) at point which the spell hits (not full-body).
> 
> Osbatuo – Latin os, ossis meaning "bone" plus batuo, meaning "batter". Spell breaks bones where it hits; severity of the break depends on power put behind the incantation. Generally a nasty thing to get hit with.
> 
> Scrutor – From the Latin, meaning "to search carefully / examine thoroughly." A seeking spell allowing the caster both short and long-range detection of a target (be it Light or Dark).


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

****_(Skeeter)_ ** **

* * *

The fluff of the peacock-feather described a lovely iridescent arc.  _Let's see. Ah!_ "Ministry blunders," Rita scowled at the parchment.  _And did they! Outrageous, that this was allowed to happen! And then to try to keep it secret –_  Ohh, she knew there was a cover-up explanation waiting to be put in place. A disaster of this magnitude? The public was in danger! The people had the right to know  _everything_  that pertained to their safety.

Perfectly lacquered nails tapped the parchment.  _'Lax security . . . Dark Wizards running unchecked . . . national disgrace.' That ought to do it!_ She could see the title, in large print across the front of the  _Prophet._   **SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP.**

"Let's see Schellden crush this one. It'll  _have_  to go through to the presses!"  _Just the thing to stir up public awareness - this is my big break!_  After all, she was a professional eyewitness and a fabulous reporter.  _Nicholas just wants to keep the_ Prophet _too tame._

Blowing on wet ink, Rita took one last look around the tent provided for the reporters' use. Good thing that Channesy wasn't here. He was the competition that kept her from the headlines.  _He's not even that skilled; he just knows the executive editor._ Accusations of favoritism never made it through to the presses, no matter how carefully she used words to hide it.

Sweeping past the canvas, she headed for the nearest Apparition point; just beyond the Muggle house.  _I wonder what happened to them._  Well, no doubt the Obliviators would have their work cut out for them.  _A piece on them – and their jobs? Not a lot of human interest, unless you look at all the cases they've missed, Muggles that go on knowing about the Wizarding world. That would be a good follow-up, with that Muggle family . . ._

Especially since the exclusive on the players that she'd wanted to do originally wasn't panning out. Most wards didn't affect Animagi, but whoever had overseen the Irish team's protections had included that component.  _My back still hurts from running into the ward._  Which was probably equally dangerous to humans, now that she thought about it.  _A piece on the sloppy and dangerous work done by the Aurors? Especially in light of the riot._

Twinges and telltale aches restricted her movement a little; it probably meant that the delicate wings of her beetle-form were still crumpled. But the pain was more than worth it; this story was her best yet.  _And I wasn't put in Slytherin House for nothing._

Sidestepping a last downed tent, she finally managed to get free of the campsite. But the Apparition point was overrun with Aurors. "Don't you have anything better to do?" she snapped.  _Ridiculous!_ Anne Lin, the irritating second-in-command of Gawain Robards, was there.  _Wasting their time marking who's coming and going when they should be catching the Death Eaters! Unbelievable!_

"Destination?" the woman asked sweetly.

Teeth ground. Rita unhinged her jaw long enough to smile back. " _Daily Prophet_  office in London." She flashed the manuscript of her article toward Lin.  _Take a good look. We'll see who has the last laugh._ "I need to get tomorrow's headline to the editor."  _After I add in a good five lines about this ridiculous hold-up!_

"Of course," was the flat reply. "If you'll take your place in the queue."

For the first time, the line of disgruntled and frightened wizards caught Rita's eye. "There are almost thirty people here!"

"And they've been waiting," Lin replied evenly.

"This," Rita pushed the article in her face, "is an  _emergency._  I need to get to the office at once, and I cannot wait!"

"I'm afraid you'll have to, just like everyone else," the Auror snapped back.

Rita let her eyes narrow behind her glasses, and reached for her parchment and quill.  _This means war!_  "Very well," she hissed. "Let me see . . .  _'criminal mismanagement'_. . .  _'time-consuming paper-pushing'_  . . .  _'neglect of public safety'_. . . Would you like to comment on how the Aurors ignored the danger to the witches and wizards attending the Cup twice in previous hours, during the two riots which have broken out? Obviously the division is unable to cope with the requirements of its position -"

"You're welcome to stand there as long as you like," the Auror interrupted smoothly. Lin's wand gestured toward the gathering crowd. "But it won't make your wait any shorter."

And the line was only getting longer.  _Very well, then. But the people will know about this!_ Rita moved to the end, peacock-feather wiggling a mad ink-trail across thick parchment. A familiar face in the line caught her attention.  _Diggory._  And another.  _Well, look at that – it's Amelia Bones and her niece._

An idea hit her.  _Exclusive!_  After all, from the look of things no one was going anywhere for a time.

"Mr. Diggory." Rita edged her way over to the man and his son, sliding glasses up firmly to bring them into sharper focus. "I heard you were involved in searching out the culprit who cast the Dark Mark only a few hours ago. What did the Ministry find?"

"I really can't speak about that, Ms. Skeeter."

_'Rumors that bodies were removed from the woods' . . ._ She applied her most charming smile. "Why not?"  _Glaring at me isn't going to get you anywhere._ But she could smell paydirt.

Diggory conceded two words. "Ministry policy."

The rest of the interview was almost like pulling teeth. If she could have pried open the man's mouth and yanked the words out of his throat with her bare hands, she would have.  _Oh well. It's what he doesn't say that's just as important. And if he's not going to tell me what's going on . . ._ She was more than capable of drawing her own conclusions. The information was out there; Rita was confident she would find it.  _Starting with my sources._

By the time she'd managed to work through the line and Apparate back to London, an additional side piece had been worked up to accompany the main article.  _It'll look perfect in the bottom corner of the front page, as an addendum –_

"Mr. Schellden," she breezed into through his office door, offering him her brightest smile.

"Rita." He was surprised. "You're in early this morning."

"I was at the Quidditch World Cup." She slid the manuscript of her article across his desk with a flare. "I have inside information on the riots, the Death Eaters, the Dark Mark -"

Schellden was nodding, eyes flicking over the page. Rita couldn't keep from bouncing, ever-so-slightly, on her toes.

_This is it, this is it!_

"This isn't a bad article, Rita." Parchment was extended back toward her.  _What?_  "But I'm afraid that you're going to have to check your sources and details more thoroughly."

"But Nicholas," she tried for a smile, pointing with the peacock-quill. "I was there, I spoke personally with several Aurors -"

"And you're missing and have misstated quite a few key facts," the  _Prophet_ 's executive editor broke in. One finger indicated a sentence; Rita didn't see, green eyes locked on the editor's blue gaze. "That Muggle family was killed – you make no mention of it. And the entire segment about the Obliviators is unnecessary. Some of your statements are completely unsubstantiated. Also, I have a much more detailed account of the riot. The presses are already printing for the morning edition."

"Who?" She would not be usurped by an upstart, she was the  _only_ member of the  _Daily Prophet_  staff on duty at the Cup –  _Wait._ "Channesy. It was Channesy, wasn't it?"

"Listen, Rita -"

She was fairly buzzing with anger.  _How could he! Behind my back, the sneaky, underhanded cheat! Oooh!_  Two steps to the left, two more to the right. Back and forth, she paced in front of Schellden's desk.  _Didn't even have the decency to check in at the_ Prophet _'s tent and let anyone know he was -_  "But I was  _there!_ "

"So was Rob." No give in that voice now. Oh, she could read people – and her editor was reaching the end of his fairly limited patience. "And he got caught in the riot, barely managing to get free. He saw the Aurors work to get the Muggles clear firsthand."

_Just because I happened to be situated on the other side of the campsite –_ "I could go back," she offered. She would not lose this chance, not now that she'd managed to wedge the door open a bit. "Interview the teams, get a piece on the match -"

Schellden was shaking his head. "I'm afraid those articles have already been written." And he had the nerve to sound apologetic! "That was what Channesy was originally at the Cup for."  _And_ he _got past the wards to see the teams –_

Painted nails dug into her palms. She was going to sneak into his office and sit there for as long as it took to find out who the wizard's sources were.

"But I would like you to go back."

_I knew it!_  The triumphant smile was barely out before the editor's next words.

"There were several witches and wizards killed in the riot yesterday," the stern glare wilted her happiness. "I want you to interview the families; there's great human interest in this kind of article. I  _don't_  think that I have to remind you that this article is going to be dealing with a tragic and controversial topic."

"Of course not!" she flared. She was a  _professional_ , no matter how they tried to suppress her work –

"No baseless accusations." The editor's voice was hard.

"My opinions are never baseless," Rita snapped right back.

"Fine," one hand waved dismissively. "This is a delicate issue. Treat it with the respect it deserves; remember, the  _Prophet_  has a reputation to maintain. These are the lives of our customers' loved ones."

"I'm aware of that." She couldn't keep the frostiness from her voice, but she  _did_  manage to avoid slamming the door on her way out. Part of it was because she was a witch with the nerve to shoulder in on a wizard's profession; Rita had encountered that her entire life.  _But he hired me. Apparently even those in positions of power are not free from blind gender prejudice._ Women in the workforce – it would make a good article. She'd just have to be circumspect enough that it could slip through to the printers.

She passed a paperboy with a fresh copy of the morning edition on the way to Schellden's office.  **DARK TIMES RETURN** , the headliner.  _So close._  She'd been  _so close –_

The sun wasn't even up. The whole day was stretching ahead of her.

_And as for Channesy. . ._

Well. She'd always known who the real competition was. It was past time she started to do something about it.

* * *

****_(Edmund)_ ** **

* * *

"Not hungry?" Limp fur waved back and forth enticingly.

He choked on his omelet.  _Gross!_ "Ugh, not anymore! Lu, put that away!"

"I wasn't talking to you." His sister lowered the dead mouse to the dish sitting on a sun-drenched sill. The tawny owl dipped a disdainful beak in the provided water bowl. It seemed to be waiting patiently for someone to drop the requisite fee into the pouch dangling from its ankle.

Edmund reached for the  _Daily Prophet_ , leaving Lucy to secure a Sickle and three Knuts in the owl's bag. The bird took of in a whirl of wings. He batted floating down away before it could land on his plate.  _Oh, ewww –_

A look at the headline made him forget to breathe.

"Edmund?"

**DARK TIMES RETURN**

Written by Robert Channesy, and complete with a picture of the Dark Mark hovering against the stars.

"Oh, Aslan. . ." He couldn't tell which set of lips the soft prayer slipped from.

Warm presence over one cotton-clad shoulder, reading.  _'Death Eaters riot at the Quidditch World Cup, recalling times before the fall of the Dark Lord.'_

"Lucy. Edmund. What's wrong?" Susan, lifting her hair back as the kitchen door yielded to her, stopping dead at the two white faces raised to greet her.

He handed over the paper.  _Four 'Muggles' killed, and six witches and wizards. Three minors. Oh Aslan . . ._

Beloved features under red hair were strained. "You don't suppose -"

_Harry. Remus and Sirius. Hermione. The Weasleys –_ "No." Ceramic scraped as he shoved the plate away, appetite gone. "We would have heard, Lu. You know we would have."

The noise of his older sister sliding into a chair across from them was almost nonexistent. "Thirteen people dead -"

"Apparently the Death Eaters were blasting tents out of the way as they went through the campsite." Edmund spared a bitter glare for the glittering skull on the front page. "They couldn't get out in time."

"And the Muggles?" Knuckes paled as Lucy gripped her arms close. He moved, catching her in a hug.

_'Despite valiant attempts by the Aurors to preserve life, medical reports confirm that the Muggles had been murdered by the Killing Curse at least an hour before the riot even began.'_

"Do you think Peter knows?" Susan's face was pinched and white, but her tone was even. Peter had left for London barely an hour before; he had no contact with the Wizarding world while there.  _That Macready is becoming more and more of a nuisance . . ._ "I don't know," Edmund admitted.

"He was planning to meet Sirius at Grimmauld Place this afternoon," Lucy murmured. A shiver trembled through her slender frame; Edmund tightened his hug. Susan's eyes went soft. "I'm sure he'll find out."

_Tap-tap-tap._

_Creak._

He needed to oil those hinges. The kitchen door had been getting louder over the years.  _Later._

"Sirius! Remus!" Lucy sprang toward them, their older sister on her heels. "You're alright!"

_And looking worse for the wear._  Edmund was just behind his sister. Robes were rumpled and stained; shadows darkened the hollows beneath two sets of eyes. "Did you manage to get any sleep at all?"

The Marauders shared a glance of grim humor.

"How bad was it?" Susan brought tea to the table, and they all managed to back off enough to let both wizards sit.

"Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys are fine," were the first words from Remus. Maybe it was only telltale signs of tiredness in every line of his body, but the gray flecking his hair seemed more pronounced to Edmund's gaze.

Pale eyes flicked over the article lodged in the center of sanded oak whorls. Edmund could tell when the Auror reached the recounting of the casualties; tiny lines around the Auror's eyes drew tight.

"How accurate is it?"

"Very." Sirius set his cup down, stiff posture melting against the back of the chair. "There were two serious injuries from the riot on the pitch yesterday. St. Mungo's reports that they have very good chances of recovery."

"The Death Eaters?"

Remus clearly already knew; the professor practically radiated distaste.

"Seven apprehended." Sirius frowned. "There were more, but a few managed to get away from the confining spells. Most of those detained after the riot were just drunk witches and wizards, having a bit of  _fun_." The last word sizzled the air more venomously than a curse.

"The article doesn't say much about the Dark Mark," Edmund said slowly. An idea he didn't much like was flirting with consciousness.  _Dark Mark. Sign of the Dark Lord . . ._ Tea cooled under his fingertips.

"Because there is little to be said."

"Padfoot. . ."

Tense lines morphed into a tired smile. "Sorry, Moony."

Suspicion solidified; breakfast became a cold lump in Edmund's stomach. "It was Voldemort, then."

"Yes."

The steady anger in the Auror's voice surprised more than just Edmund. He caught Remus giving the other Marauder a worried glance as well.  _There's something he's not saying. What's going on here?_

"But he's gone now." The Auror shrugged, the powerful intensity that had flickered in pale eyes gone like mist before the noonday sun. "With any luck the containment field I put up around the scene caught his accomplice, but I doubt it."

"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?" Susan knew about Voldemort, knew that he was a wizard who wanted immortality and power over all of them – and that the Pevensies were a target because the love of Aslan gave them something he wanted.  _Something he'll never have._  That Tom Riddle, her girlhood crush, and Lord Voldemort were one and the same . . .  _She knows, but she doesn't truly remember_.

Without the memory of turbulent emotions, the texture of them, all Susan had was clinical analysis. And Peter had long since given up the hope of being forgiven for making her unhappy, all those years ago.

"No," was the Auror's response.

Remus shook his head, one hand rubbing tired eyes. "We can't even tell them without more proof."

Edmund grimaced, sipping stone-cold tea.  _We've been over and over it, from so many different angles . . ._ They needed solid evidence.  _Evidence that won't bring us all so far into the public eye that we might as well dance naked in Diagon Alley for all the privacy we'll get._  "What do we do?"

"I have the feeling that we won't have long to wait."

"Sorry?"

Sirius blinked, focusing back in on them. "Voldemort. I have the feeling he won't wait the year out before revealing himself, useful as the secrecy of his return might be."

"Why?" Edmund couldn't bank on that; he was going to spend whatever time he had trying to convince children at Hogwarts  _not_  to chose Darkness over Light. And to heal the young souls already shadowed by Voldemort's legacy.  _I need every advantage I can get._

"Because of the power it will give him." The Auror was picking apart the situation with an analysis more cold-blooded than any battle plan. "The fear he inspired had life of its own. It made people crumble before him, join his ranks – and with Fudge and his new assistant in office, the power of that fear over the government might be enough to plunge us all into Darkness."

"But we have time to prepare," Remus cut in reassuringly. Edmund saw the werewolf glancing at his sisters' worried faces, and put an arm over Lucy's shoulders. Susan drew closer, seeking comfort. "Nothing is going to happen even within the next month. Voldemort wants a war, but wars take time. Preparation." He stifled a yawn.

_Time we can use as well._

"You're exhausted," Lucy changed the topic abruptly, standing.

"I got more sleep than Sirius did," Remus deferred immediately, avoiding anyone's gaze.

The other Marauder snorted. "Which means you're worse off, not better. I can keep going – you've had a little bit of rest and you're just waiting to crawl off somewhere and sleep for a day."

"Too right," Remus managed around another yawn. "But you need one of us awake, if those wizards from the Department of Magical Transportation are coming to set up the Floo -"

"I'll take care of it," Sirius rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Get some sleep, Moony."

Susan sighed, getting to her feet as Remus disappeared into the hall. "You know, I just remembered the mess that temporary Floo was. Maybe we should rethink this decision."

The Auror shook his head. "There are a few clauses in the permanent spell which care for that. The temporary wouldn't have had it; it takes too much power unless the spell's being set for good."

Edmund glanced over at his half-finished breakfast, eyes catching the headline once more in their travels across the tabletop. It made his stomach clench in fury.  _I think I'm done eating for a few hours._

"Why?" Lucy gave up on the dishes in the sink, pushing herself up onto the counter. Bare feet swung, within centimeters of pounding on cabinet doors. "Don't most people have house-elves to take care of that?"

"Good question, Lu."  _I hadn't thought of that._  Edmund felt his face pull into a frown at the cold tea in his cup.  _Nasty._

Sirius couldn't hide his surprise. "Wherever did you get that idea?"

Water ran, washing tea down the drain. Edmund turned the faucet, glancing back.

"Well, Hogwarts . . ." Lucy shrugged.

The white wand was out. It still caught Edmund's eye; for all his wanderings around Hogwarts and Diagon Alley, he had yet to see another wand made of aspen.  _There's something we don't know there, either._  But he would ask Remus, maybe.

"Hogwarts is massive." The wand flicked toward the sink.  _"Scourgify."_  Suds filled the basin, a sponge lifting to scrub dishes all on its own. "There are a lot of different cleaning spells and solutions used by magic folk."

_Does everyone who knows Hagrid use that phrase?_  Edmund grinned; he sometimes did, himself.

Sirius shrugged. "House-elves are usually found at places where the effort for witches and wizards to clean is so extensive that it would be ridiculous to try. Hogwarts, probably Durmstrang Institute and Beauxbatons Academy, the Ministry, St. Mungo's – places like that. The upper echelon of Wizarding society usually have house-elves as well."

"A status-mark," Susan commented, watching the dishes hop merrily through soap bubbles and water to sit cheerily in the drying rack. Edmund's eyes narrowed.  _They move the same way they did when they were enchanted to act like frogs at Harry's party . . ._

"Yes." Another flick of the wand, and the water drained, bubbles disappearing. Countertops were suddenly sparkling, free of crumbs. "Sometimes they're attached to a particular place or family. But more Wizarding families have Floo than house-elves, so it was something that got built into the enchantments early."

"'Attached'?" Lucy had a glint in her eye. Edmund couldn't particularly disagree.  _That's slavery._  It left a bad taste in his mouth. "You make it sound like they're barely creatures worth noticing."

"Well, it hasn't always been like that." The wizard sounded thoughtful.

"What do you mean?" Susan's curiosity spoke for him.  _Thanks, Su!_  Edmund perked up.

"House-elves are very powerful magical creatures," Sirius leant against the doorjamb; Edmund went back to the table. "For the most part. They didn't start off that way. They were . . . Muggles call them 'Brownies', I believe, but they have many names. Kobolds,  _ùruisg_ , Heinzelmännchen. Mostly they were just little sprites, who would come into homes and perform small magics, trying not to be noticed."

"Why?" Lucy persisted, crossing her dangling ankles.

"No one knew why," Sirius shrugged. The wand had disappeared again, though midnight robes lay over the back of a chair in favor of regular Muggle clothes.  _Too hot for so many layers of cloth._  Edmund wasn't surprised. "Not for awhile. Then people started to notice that the longer a house-elf was with a Wizarding family, or attached to a certain home, the more powerful their magic grew and the more they were able to do."

He got it. "They're parasites."

"Not quite." Hands dove into pockets. "They're not harmful, if that's what you mean. But they do get something out of their association with witches and wizards. They . . . absorb, I suppose, magic from the members of the family or from places that are heavily magical, like Hogwarts."

"Interesting. Has anyone studied this phenomenon?"  _Look out world._  Susan in full-on 'scientist' mode.

Another shrug. "I'm not sure. I don't really know all that much about it."  _More than most, I bet._  But Edmund didn't press the wizard.

"Something for you to look into, Su," Lucy suggested. "Speaking of magic, do you know when the wizards from the Department of Magical Transportation are going to be here?"

"Soon," Edmund interjected, with a look at the clock. He pleaded with the ceiling for patience. "That is, if I've got the times right."  _Irritating magical clocks . . . not a one of them tells the time properly._  But they were useful enough for other things; the Weasleys had one telling where family members were.  _I wouldn't mind having one of those._

"We'd better make sure everything's ready." Susan stepped around Sirius and into the hallway.

"We already checked twice," Lucy filled in with a tolerant smile, door swinging shut behind the youngest Pevensie.

Edmund followed, shrugging at the wizard's raised brow. "Coming?"

* * *

****_(Molly Weasley)_ ** **

* * *

"Oh thank goodness, thank goodness!" Wetness soaked through her bedroom slippers from damp grass. "Arthur – I've been so worried –  _so worried_  –" Molly flung her arms around her husband's neck, dropping the paper.  _Oh, thank Merlin he's alright – and Ginny and Ron, Bill, Charlie, Percy – oh, my boys –_

Molly wiped at tearing eyes. "You're all right." She let Arthur go, just a little bit. "You're alive. . . Oh  _boys -_ "

She caught up two identical bodies in a hug.

" _Ouch!_  Mum – you're strangling us -"

"I shouted at you before you left!" Sobs boiled up, she fought to get the words out. "It's all I've been thinking about! What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you was that you didn't get enough O.W.L.s? Oh Fred . . . George. . ."

"Come on, now, Molly, we're all perfectly okay." A solid arm went around her, and the twins slipped free.  _Something's wrong._  She could tell it, in her husband's voice. Tears blurred the trip back into the Burrow.

Seated in the kitchen she could look them all over.  _Percy's nose is red, oh dear – he got hit in the face – and what happened to Charlie's shirt! And Bill – there's a bandage on his arm, oh –_

"Here you are, Mrs. Weasley." A cup of strong tea  _clink_ ed to the table in front of her. Hermione gave her a hopeful smile.

"Thank you, dear." Molly hiccupped, sighing.  _So thoughtful._  "Oh, you're all alright – I was reading the paper and  _so worried!_ " They could have  _died_  – other people had.  _Death Eaters. . . oh, Merlin save us!_ In the face of that -  _How could I have been so angry over O.W.L.s?_

Arthur pulled out the Ogdens Old Firewhiskey as Bill handed him the  _Daily Prophet_. Her baby girl was exhausted – oh, they all were, it must have been such a  _dreadful_  night – with  _riots_  and  _Death Eaters –_  fear chilled her from the inside out. The tea burned pleasantly going down, spreading soothing warmth.

"It's not bad," Arthur sighed, lowering the paper. She really didn't want to look at that awful glowing skull much longer. "Channesy has all his facts straight, at least."

"It says he was caught in the riot," Charlie was reading over his father's shoulder.

"And he still manages to avoid spreading accusations and rumors," her husband set the paper aside. "Much as I hate to say it, I'm glad he got the article written before that Rita Skeeter could try to print whatever trash she made up after cornering us outside that wood!"

"That woman's got it in for the Ministry of Magic!" Percy said hotly. "Last week she was saying we're wasting our time quibbling about cauldron thickness, when we should be stamping out vampires! As if it wasn't  _specifically_  stated in paragraph twelve of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans -"

"Do us a favor, Perce," yawned her oldest, "and shut up."

"Bill!" Molly couldn't help scolding.  _I know he's old enough to live on his own now, but really!_

A tired smile went her way. "Sorry, Mum."

Arthur sat further back, comfortable. "At least I'm not going to have to go into the office."

"Of course not! You're on vacation, Arthur!"

"Yes, well." He looked rather uncomfortable, and she knew exactly what he was thinking.  _I won't stand for it!_

"Oh, no you don't!" Molly raised a shaking finger. "This has nothing to do with your office, Arthur, and there's no need for you to try to smooth things over at all – you weren't even involved."

"Well, I have to give a statement to the Aurors," her husband admitted. One hand was combing through the front of his bangs nervously. Red tufts pointed sideways off his head; her fingers itched to smooth it down.

"Mr. Black can collect that when he shows up to get Harry, though, can't he?"

_Hermione. Bless that girl._

"That's not proper procedure," Percy pointed out; she couldn't hold back a frown as her son continued. "I don't really think it would be acceptable."

"Why not?"

_Oh, Ron._  Her youngest son had been at his brother all summer. Percy was adhering quite stringently to the rules, but that was a good thing.  _So unlike Bill and the twins._  Charlie was the same way, though he was less vocal about it.

"Policy is in place for a  _reason_ ," Percy shot back. Toast popped out of the toaster; Molly frowned.  _I don't remember –_

Hermione collected it, sliding jam and a knife onto the table within everyone's easy reach.  _Ah._  The girl really was responsible and thoughtful. It was nice to see that Ron's friends were such good children. Poor Harry did have his fair share of trouble, but now that his godfather was free –

"Quiet, you two." Arthur raised his voice to be heard over Percy and Ron's bickering.

Another burning gulp of tea, as she caught sight of the paper headline once more.

"But -"

"Ron!" Molly sighed, wishing she didn't have to snap at him; but still, the familiarity of it gave her a strange comfort.  _It's so good to have them all home and safe – oh, I thought -_

The floor shivered.

"What's that?" Bright green eyes darted nervously at each of them. Her children were simply moving out of the way; tired as they all were, she was sure it was just automatic.  _Poor dears._

"Visitor," Molly reassured Harry. "That's just -"

_Bang!_

The Floo roared to life, tumbling a new figure into the kitchen.

The person swore, colorfully and creatively; a chair leg snapped off as the man hit it rolling from the fireplace. Various items fell from the edge of the counter, spilling and spraying glass shards across the floor.  _Drat!_ The body fetched up against the far wall.

Her frown solidified as the man stood, shaking soot from his hair. Pale eyes glanced up, and froze. Hands lifted slowly.  _Sirius?_

Then Molly saw that all her sons – indeed, her husband as well as their guests, had wands out and aimed. Arms relaxed as the wizard's face was revealed.  _What's going on here?_

"Language!" She remembered, belatedly, to be severe.  _Really, Ginny shouldn't hear such_  – but her youngest was grinning.  _Hmmm._ Molly raised a brow; her daughter's lips jerked straight, but laughter danced in blue eyes. "We were expecting you," she told him. "You're a bit early."

Pink stained the Auror's cheeks; he was off-duty, in Muggle clothes. "Sorry about that." His wand came out; Molly blinked at the wood.  _How unusual._ Pale eyes half-closed.  _"Ma'at."_

A slow wave of power, it spread like a single ripple through a pond. When it passed, the chair was righted, broken plates restored – glancing around, Molly noticed that the soot was gone; in fact, the kitchen was cleaner than it had been in months. The creaky table looked better than new, and the crack had disappeared from the window over the stove where Fred and George had tried to conduct one of their experiments. A glance around the room showed that little things here and there had been fixed, adjusted, or renewed.  _Including Charlie's shirt._

The sigh only just reached her ears. "Ah, damn."

"What spell was that?" Hermione's interest gleamed in brown eyes.  _Such a thirst for knowledge._  Molly shook her head, smiling. A good influence on Ron.  _Still, I dare say it would be very useful about the house._  She'd never heard that incantation before either.

"I'm sorry," the Auror offered. "I was just going to fix my mess, but the spell got away from me a little." He scowled, muttering something uncomplimentary under his breath about  _magic_  and _ancestors,_ but nothing clearer.

"It's no matter." Molly reached out to brush soot off Sirius' shirt. "I've been after Arthur to replace that window for weeks now."

"Where did you Floo from?" Harry cut in, looking puzzled.

"Thank you." His wand had disappeared. Sirius' attention slipped to his godson. "First trip is usually a little rough, but the Pevensies' Floo is up and running."  _Oh, they finally got it installed? Wonderful!_

"No way!"

"Yes way." The Auror ruffled Harry's hair. "Ready to go?"

Molly hmphed.  _You don't get away that easily!_ "Just as soon as you explain to me why everyone got so jumpy when Sirius arrived." Probably didn't mean anything.  _It could just be that they're all on edge from last night –_  But for a throwaway question, the room was suddenly too still. Fear drenched her, washing away the tiny smile she'd worn.

Arthur's eyes were serious.  _Something's wrong._  "Molly, there's something I need to tell you."

* * *

****_(Harry)_ ** **

* * *

"Come on." Sirius was herding all of them to the parlor.

Harry looked over one shoulder. Mr. Weasley was urging Mrs. Weasley down in front of her toddy, speaking to her in a low voice.

"Let's go," Bill spoke up. The Weasley children filed out without protest at that; Charlie flicked a Silencing Charm back at the kitchen.

Settling around the living room, Harry couldn't take the silence as they waited for something to happen. "I thought you had to work," he grinned at his godfather, still surprised that Remus hadn't shown up instead.

Sirius smiled back. "I have six hours before they want me back to help clean up. Did you get any sleep?"

_I wish._  "Not really." Harry shoved back a yawn, but wasn't entirely successful. He could see that Ginny had already fallen asleep on Percy, and Fred and George were muttering to themselves on the side. Charlie had started to darn a fireproof balaclava that had been hiding among knick-knacks on the mantle.

The soft murmur of conversation was soothing. Harry blinked.  _Hmm?_

"Well when we get back you can go to sleep if you like. Remus' already out like a light." Sirius settled deeper into the couch, breathing a soft sigh. Harry leant, a little, and one of his godfather's arms came around him, pulling him in a sideways hug. The hand gently ruffling his hair felt good.  _Warm. Soft._

Comfortable, and secure. Sleep beckoned gently; Harry didn't waste energy fighting it.

"Sirius?" Hermione's voice felt like it was coming from a long way off.

The body pressed against his side shifted a little, vibrating with speech. "Yes, Hermione?"

"What was that charm that you used before? I've never heard an incantation like that – what language was it?"  _Hermione and new magic. . . like a dog with a bone . . ._ the analogy made him smile, even on the shores of sleep.

"It's a bothersome little spell," Sirius said quietly. "Just something passed down in my family forever. When it comes to cleaning charms, you're much better off using something a little more predictable. I only used that from reflex."

"Oh." Hermione sounded disappointed. "Sorry to bother you."

"It's no bother. Curiosity's a good thing. If you don't ask, you'll never know."

Sound trailed into nothing, punctuated by the slow rise-fall of the chest his head was resting against.  _In. . . out. . . in . . . out . . . ._

"Oh,  _boys!_ "

Adrenaline surged; Harry snapped upright, smacking against something hard. "Ow!"

A hand at his head, he looked up to see Sirius rubbing his jaw, rueful smile on his face. "You alright, Harry?"

A yawn split his face in two; Harry blushed.

"Oh, Fred – George – you kept everyone safe, oh, I can't  _believe_  it -"

"Mum -" George gasped. She had them in a stranglehold again, hugging tightly. Fred's face was red.

Mr. Weasley moved in again, carefully prying her off the twins. "There, now, everything's fine, Molly -"

Mrs. Weasley gulped tearfully. "Oh, I can't believe it – You-Know-Who – oh, what are we going to  _do_  – you all have to go to school, and I just want you to be safe -"

"We needn't worry about getting the children to London this year, at least," Mr. Weasley soothed. "The Pevensies have offered to let us use their Floo as a waystation to Hogsmeade."

_Huh?_  Emerald eyes shot to Sirius for an explanation; his godfather smiled.

"Ever wondered how students who live far from London get to Hogwarts?"

"Not really," Harry yawned.  _Tired._ He'd yet to see Seamus Finnegan on the Hogwarts Express, but he'd always assumed they'd just missed each other.

"Some students actually live closer to Hogwarts than to London," Sirius explained. "It's out of their way to go to Platform 9 ¾ and catch the Express. There's a Central Floo Station in Hogsmeade. A lot of students take the Floo to Hogsmeade, using stopover points, and then meet everyone coming off the train at Hogsmeade Station to go to Hogwarts."

Hermione was listening closely. "Is that what's going to happen this year?"

"Probably." Sirius rose, stretching a little. Pale eyes flicked to Mrs. Weasley, fat tears streaking her cheeks. "I think it's time to head out."

They said their goodbyes to the Weasleys. Mrs. Weasley was gulping at the toddy Mr. Weasley had brought out of the kitchen for her, and had an arm wrapped around Ginny that strongly suggested she was never going to let go. She was gushing over Fred and George and the spell they'd developed; Hermione rolled her eyes as Harry grinned.  _Looks like 'Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' just got Mrs. Weasley's stamp of approval._

Sirius reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sack of Floo Powder. "Pevensie Mansion. Keep your elbows tucked in -"

"And my head down." Harry grinned. "I know."

"Go on then." Sirius nudged him a bit.

Seconds later he was shooting across the Mansion's floor, skidding to a stop and rolling quickly out of the way. Just in time; his godfather followed quickly, and then waved him near. "Whenever you're done using the Floo, Harry, tap the mantle with your wand, here."

"Why?" It was a struggle to keep his eyes open.

"The Floo is like a door. You need to close it when you're done."

"'Kay." Taking a nap was sounding better and better. Harry managed to stumble to his room without help, but didn't bother undressing before snuggling into the mattress. Sleep, long denied, rushed up with a vengeance.

Lights out.

* * *

****_(Dumbledore)_ ** **

* * *

"Professor Stanton. Welcome to Hogwarts."

The man blinked, gazing across a green field that Albus knew looked empty, desolate, and utterly uninviting.

The Headmaster stroked his beard a moment, before reaching for fourteen inches of sycamore.  _"Aggrego."_

Gray eyes blinked. Widened. But the face remained serene, except for a small smile. "Thank you. I was fighting the urge to go home and return a call to my sister."

"The Muggle-repelling charms around Hogwarts are very old and powerful." Albus began to walk toward the entrance to the Great Hall, casting a twinkling smile back. "But there are. . . loopholes."

"I imagine those might be useful every so often," the low murmur seemed to escape the Muggle's attention; a glance showed Albus that the man was utterly absorbed in his surroundings. The Headmaster himself didn't know precisely what Muggles saw, other than a brown and barren moor, but the grass under their feet was lushly green and Hogwarts itself sprawled lazily not far away.

"A moment." Albus paused on before entering the school, measuring amiable features over which – or was he imagining? – curiosity swept, there and gone. "If you would, please, place your hand on the doors."

Not an inquisitive look, not even a questioning glance as fingers met oak.  _Why does it bother me that there is no emotion to him?_  Because it made the new professor an unknown quantity.  _Well. He is a Muggle; there is a limit to the damage he can do._  It wasn't the first time the insistence of the School Governors had forced him into a hiring he was unsure of. Almost forty years of annually rotating DADA professors had helped him learn to keep his reservations to himself.

" _Admoneo virem."_

A breeze kicked up; Stanton shivered once.

"There." Albus pushed the door open. "You have been entered into the castle's wards, they will recognize you now. And the magic of Hogwarts has accepted you. You need not worry that any of your students might try to place a spell of any sort on you."

Stanton inclined his head, straight brown bangs brushing gray eyes. The small smile grew, just a little. "My thanks. That is . . . comforting."

_Crack!_

Stanton jumped; Albus turned and smiled.

"Headmaster Dumbledore, sir," squeaked the small, green-skinned creature bedecked in mismatching socks and moth-eaten collared shirt. "Dobby is here, sir, as Master ordered."

_There!_  The newest professor blinked, eyes a hair wider than normal.  _Not as controlled as Severus. Not quite._

"Ah, Dobby. This is Professor Stanton."

The little house-elf bowed, shirttails scraping the ground. "An honor it is, sir."

Now that he knew how to read it, embarrassment and mortification lurked in the kind smile Stanton gave the creature. "It's nice to meet you, Dobby."

"May Dobby take Professor Stanton's bags, sir?"

Even in light of such aggressive hospitality, the man's calm didn't waver. "I'd rather hold on to them, if you don't mind," Stanton lifted the two cases once more, fast to regain composure.

"Ah, very good then." One hand swept forth. "Shall we?" Albus led them past the Great Hall, stopping a moment to let the newest professor peer inside. "Dobby will give you a detailed tour of the castle as soon as you've settled."

"The steps change, sir," squeaked the house-elf helpfully as they reached the portrait bedecked tower spanned by dozens of shifting staircases.

_Indeed they do!_  Albus wished that he could accompany Stanton and Dobby on the tour; Hogwarts had been the only place he ever wanted to be since childhood.  _Watching others see its wonders for the first time . . ._ Through his students, the Headmaster could be reminded of all the ways in which he loved this school.

_And here we are._

The entrance to this set of rooms was a stele that looked to be carved into the wall; the clash of two armies on horseback had been pulled from the stone in detailed relief. "Simply touch a finger to this horse's mane, and say your password." The equine in question was a magnificent creature, rearing free of its rider at the head of the left-hand army.  _Almost ready to leap into the halls of Hogwarts._

"The house-elves assure me that the rooms are ready for your use," Albus twinkled at Dobby; the little creature smiled back from under floppy ears. "The password has been set to your name, and Dobby will show you how to change it. I expect I will see you at the evening meal, in the Great Hall, Professor Stanton?"

"You shall." The handshake was firm, but the eagerness barely hidden in gray eyes did much to allay Albus' doubts.

The portrait alongside the carving, that of a unicorn, was innocuously chewing hay. One dark eye remained fixed on them, and Albus raised a brow at it as he passed. The creature was far more intelligent than it let on.  _I wonder if that's a result of guarding Pevensie Tower. Or perhaps wizards don't know as much of unicorns as we believe we do._

_Think on it later. Now –_  Now, he had business to deal with. Albus reached his office with little trouble; Hogwarts Castle was slightly more accommodating to its Headmaster than to the students. Stairs resisted the urge to change until he had crossed, and hallways remained connected to their proper destinations for the minute it took him to pass through.

"Ice Mice."

The slide of stone over stone accompanied him as the revolving stairs carried him upward. A soft  _skreet_  greeted him; red whirled through the air and feathery weight settled on his shoulder.

"Fawkes." Soft down brushed his ear; the treat he held up was delicately grasped in a sharp beak. "There is much to be done."

_Indeed._  He had begun the summoning of the old crowd a week ago, on Severus' confirmation of Voldemort's return.  _Sirius Black is many things, but a liar is not one of them._  The man was unaccountably troublesome, and always had been.  _There's little to be done about that now. Think on it later._

The Dark Mark sparkled menacingly from the front page of the  _Daily Prophet._   **DARK TIMES RETURN.**   _Not if I can help it._

Replies littered gleaming mahogany, just beside the disturbing article. Red cushions shaped themselves around Albus' body as he sat, with the comfort of long acquaintance.  _Arabella Fig, Mundungus Fletcher, of course._   _Alastor Moody._   _Emmeline Vance, Deadalus Diggle, Sturgis Podmore._  Amelia Bones had also replied – and with the suggestion to allow cell-leaders to begin recruiting.  _She wants Gawain Robard. And it would be easier, with the Head of the Aurors among us._

He'd hoped for more by now.

_They will not want to believe Voldemort has returned; especially when life carries on without noticing._  But perhaps some good would come of the tragedy at the World Cup.

Experience had taught Albus that the only way for the Order to survive the upcoming war was through secrecy. Even he didn't know who all the members of the covert group were; he knew many of the original leaders of small cells scattered through the Wizarding World, but not their members or cells that had arisen around them.

Nearly out of ink, the quill paused.

_We have lost members. We will have been weakened through the years, just as he has._

But like a phoenix stretching its wings for flight, the word would gently spread.

* * *

****_(Peter)_ ** **

* * *

"Achoo!"

Sirius coughed. "Sorry."

Thick dust silvered the wizard's hair; raking fingers through blond strands, Peter felt a cloud of the stuff lift from his own head. "No one's lived here in how long?"

"Ten years at least." The last dustcloth joined the others in the middle of an expensive rug covered in filth. "Welcome to Grimmauld place."

"It's interesting," Peter replied truthfully.

Sirius snorted, pale eyes narrowly scanning the room to within an inch of its life. "It's a dump. Now."

He kept his mouth shut, and followed the wizard to a window. Rubbing at the grime produced a bleary image of the street outside. Muggles walked unconcernedly by, paying no attention to the decrepit house rotting between numbers ten and fourteen. At the very least, it should have garnered a glance – "They can't see it."  _Why am I so surprised?_

"No," Sirius agreed. "There are many enchantments on this place. Old magics. It's Unplottable, and unless you have a direct blood tie, you can't Apparate into the house." Which meant Sirius was the only one who could do so.

Peter looked over the room again. Faded furniture made dirty with the weight of years of disuse, a sight that was helped by the fact that little light illuminated the true extent of the disrepair. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, was just as Sirius had warned him. Dark. "It's going to take a lot of work."

"Not so much," the wizard shrugged, detouring around a mahogany table and headed toward the door. "Some spells will make it livable at least, until I can find a house-elf to do something about the other problems. And a lot of the wards need to be patched, or entirely reworked and strengthened."

"A house-elf? Why -"

_"Filthy blood traitor!"_ His hand was reaching for his sword before he recognized the shriek.  _"You are no child of mine, disloyal cur! Disowned bastard of the House of Black! You -"_

_"Silencio."_

The mouth of the portrait moved, and Peter watched the fury on painted features fan into flames as the words the spindly woman tried to spit out at them were smothered. In the half-light, he was barely able to make out the heads of house-elves mounted high on the walls. "Why don't you just get rid of that?" Peter asked, carefully as he knew how.

"The portrait?" Sirius scowled. "Knowing my mum, there's a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of it. It'll take more time than I have to get rid of the damn thing. I'd blast it, but she's probably warded it. It's a miracle I got her to shut up for this long."

_Well then._  Peter held up a hand. "Would you mind if I . . .?"

The wizard blinked, and then smiled for the first time since their feet had hit the front walk. "Be my guest."

It took a moment of focused concentration before he was able to yank the frame from the wall, but the look in Sirius' eyes was worth it. Peter could feel the spells dissolving from the portrait, water sliding from a duck's back, as he lowered it to the floor. "The spells on it are gone," he commented, planting both feet on ragged carpet, well away from whatever destruction was about to find the hateful creation.

_"Incendio!"_  Flames shot out, greedily gulping down oil and canvas. The frame was a charred outline that existed for only a moment before likewise being swallowed by the spell.

_"Nooooo!"_

Peter whirled at the despairing croak, and was shocked at the small figure that rushed toward the spot of ash staining the rug.  _A – is that a house-elf? But I thought-_

"Blood traitor!" the nasty little thing hissed. It looked like the house-elves of Hogwarts, except that its skin was darkened with age.  _Or dirt._  "It has destroyed Mistress' portrait -"

"Be silent, Kreacher!" Sirius' voice was harsh; Peter winced.  _Maybe coming here wasn't the best idea after all._  But Sirius was determined, and for more reasons than one. With the power of the Black lineage behind the magics sunk into the wood and land of Grimmauld Place, the house was a veritable fortress.  _And it could become a sanctuary._

It was more than likely, given how easily the Mansion had been breached by Death Eaters. Sometimes, there was no solution but to fight fire with fire.  _Sirius needs a secure retreat._ And Harry needed a place to call home.  _Though I don't know if Grimmauld Place qualifies. . . ._ Hard to believe Sirius had grown up here.

The little thing was muttering evilly to itself, but no words were truly legible. Sirius' glare had the house-elf glaring back, a living version of the eerie, glass-eyed stares drifting down from the decapitated heads high on the walls.

Peter blinked. "I thought you said there wasn't a house-elf in Grimmauld Place."

"I was expecting to find him dead somewhere," Sirius admitted. "This makes things a bit more complicated."

"The traitor is speaking of Kreacher as if Kreacher had loyalty to such a thing -"

"Quiet!" But unexpectedly, the wizard was almost laughing. "Unbelievable."

Peter choked on a laugh. "What's it going to take to make this place habitable in the next day?"

The wizard glared at the dead house-elf heads. "A good deal of magic. A week of a proper house-elf's attention -"

Kreacher opened its mouth.

"Not. A. Word."

Thwarted, the house-elf made low grumbling noises to itself, skulking back into the shadow-lined hallway. Sirius caught Peter staring, and smiled thinly. "There's a lot of Dark magic about this place. It's affected his temperament a bit."

"I'll say." They hadn't even breached the deeper regions of the house yet, and Peter found himself reluctant to go further.  _It's worse than the Forbidden Forest._  And that was almost an understatement –

White  _glowed_ , despite the weak lighting. "Sirius?" The Auror's wand was out, and up.  _Something's out there?_  No warning, shivering down his spine. He felt the frown, and ignored it.

"Just – stand there a minute. Don't move."

Mystified, Peter obeyed. Pale eyes shut in concentration.  _What's going on?_

" _Ma'at."_

_Tsunami_ , was all Peter could think. But it was a wind, with all the force of a mile-high tidal wave smashing against land – even though it was gentle as summer, a breeze caressing his face like a dryad's call.  _Magic?_  He'd never felt  _anything_  like this.

Blue eyes that he couldn't remember closing blinked at the hallway.

It wasn't much cleaner, but it was different. The dinginess now was what he would expect of a house uninhabited for years, but not wholly neglected. And there was light, through all the windows. Peter looked closer.

_What happened to the – Aslan._

The horrendous, decapitated house-elf heads were gone. Changes scattered here and there in the actual build of the house; the hallway was more open, the faded carpet red rather than blue. Woodwork, though still blanketed with age and dirt, was golden, not the black it had been. Metal fixtures he would have sworn were in the shape of snakes now sported lion's heads.

It was still in need of a lot of work, and it was still Dark. But the Darkness had faded considerably, lingering only in the shadows behind closed doors and under furniture.

"What was  _that?_ "

Shoulders shrugged too casually as the wizard took a cautious step further into the hall. "Old magic, been in my family for ages."

The instinct slammed Peter out of nowhere; a peculiar  _shifting_  of the world revealed in a blinding moment of truth that he had felt during the hardest of Narnian negotiations, the toughest profiling cases. "Literally?"

A glint in pale eyes. "Something like that."

_Carefully, now . . ._ Peering into another room, he saw the dustcloths were not smothered thickly with dirt, but only lightly coated.  _Did it change the whole house?_ "I've never seen magic do anything like that."  _Not on that – scale. It took the Darkness away._

"Magic is all about intent." Sirius' hand was wary on the closed kitchen door; oak swung back without a sound. "The purest, most powerful form of magic is the oldest. The words are the ones first used to harness magic; the intent is . . . clearer." The other man prowled through the kitchen, cautiously opening drawers and poking through cupboards.

_Important._  He knew it . . . but Peter couldn't – quite – see how.  _Wait. Be patient. Gather the pieces._

"Good," Sirius breathed, casting a smile his way. "Let's check upstairs."

Upstairs was like the rest of the house now was; unused, but not filled with the decrepit decay that had swarmed through Grimmauld Place on their arrival. A few quick cleaning spells had two bedrooms and the water closet almost like new.  _Still, I can't help but hope that Sirius does manage to find another house-elf. Soon._

That Kreacher –

Peter clamped down on an uncharitable thought. Tested the restored mattress instead, a bit surprised when his bouncing didn't elicit a cloud of dust. Spells or not, when the dirt vanished and he couldn't tell where it had gone, he couldn't fully trust it was clean.  _Come on, Peter! You've slept in worse places than this!_

Yes – but that had been  _outside –_

The mirror, thankfully, didn't talk; but if it did, it would only be telling him how foolish he was acting. He'd unpacked, gotten settled, and had fifteen minutes before Sirius was going to collect him to enter Peter into the House's wards.

Fifteen minutes was not enough time to deal with the letter in his hand.  _The one I've reread a hundred times, looking for a way to tell Su, Ed, and Lu about something I don't even believe in._ Magical prophecies marked turning points, they didn't spell out the future with undeniable confidence, as Narnian prophecies did.

_**'There is a prophecy about the fall of Voldemort, telling of the one who will vanquish him. I have reason to believe the individual it mentions is Susan.'** _

Reason? None was specifically mentioned in the green script gliding across parchment stained with Peter's fingerprints. It was crumpled where he'd gripped hard on the first read-through. Peter smoothed the marks absently.

They hadn't even  _seen_  this prophecy. And if Dumbledore thought to command their actions, they had to know fully everything he was keeping from them. Prophecy very much included.

_**'There are undeniable cues and parallels mentioned by the Seer, and I believe the power you four control is prominent enough to challenge him.'** _

_Control?_  That was being generous. It simply  _was_ , like the length of their hair or strength of their hands – changeable, but a  _part_  of them.

_Do I want Dumbledore knowing that?_

The love of Aslan was more wide-ranging than just  _Aegis Sanguinis_ , though that was the phrase the Wizarding world knew it by. Voldemort was nothing in the face of it, for all his evil.  _But for all we can interact with the Wizarding world, are we really meant to save it?_

This prophecy business made Peter uneasy. By the Lion's Mane, he didn't know which way to turn.

_**'Thus, when you arrive at Hogwarts again in September, I will speak with all of you about what this means for the future.'** _

Whatever was happening, Peter didn't like his options.  _Ed, Su and Lu will be at Hogwarts next year, all the time; and I'll be mostly gone, dealing with work and the Macready._  He'd been efficiently separated out from them, and he didn't like it one bit.  _Especially now, with our very lives dependant on Dumbledore and Hogwarts for safety from Voldemort._  The ease with which Death Eaters had found and breached the Mansion left no doubts on that score.

What was he going to do?

_But first, how do I tell my family what I suspect?_

He'd been wrestling with that question since the Hogwarts owl had arrived, almost on the heels of the furious visit Harry's godfather had made to the Headmaster.  _Just after Voldemort was resurrected._

Last year, they'd at least had time. This year, every day was a respite from the battles Peter  _knew_  were looming.

Blue eyes drifted shut.  _Aslan, by your grace protect my family. Shield us from harm. I beseech thee, Great Lion – give me the strength and courage to face all coming trials. Help me protect my brother and sisters. Please, Aslan. Help me keep those in my charge safe._

Prayer was a comfort to him, bringing him something close to the serenity he'd found gazing into tawny eyes, the calm brought by a heavy paw resting on his shoulder. He would continue to do everything he had to in order to protect his family.  _No matter what._

There was a war coming.

 

 

_**Fin** _


End file.
